Never Enough
by stress
Summary: In 1921 New York, the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys ruled the city. After a brief war there was peace but it was never enough to create trust. All it took was one night – and one gunshot – to shatter that illusion. [a take on Romeo & Juliet]
1. P

Disclaimer:_ I do not own any of the original Newsies characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters (such as Johnny Conlon and the Finn brothers) that will most likely pop up throughout this work._

_--_

_Prologue_

_--_

"In 1899 the streets of New York City echoed with the voice of newsies, peddling the newspapers of Joseph Pulitzer, William Randolph Hearst and other giants of the newspaper world. On every street corner you saw them bringing you the news for a penny a pape. Poor orphans and runaways, the newsies were a ragged army without a leader until one day all that changed..."  
—**Racetrack Higgins, 1899** (_Newsies_)

--

More than twenty years has passed since that time. In the year 1921 of our Lord, those same newsies, once poor and ragged, were the strong, the powerful, the elite—the _Manhattan Mob_. Under the control of Jack 'Cowboy' Kelly, these gangsters ran the seedy Underworld of the Lower East Side. Prostitution, gambling, booze, numbers… nothing was too down or too dirty for these street-bred men.

But, of course, they were not alone. During this era of Prohibition, a rival gang (Boss Conlon's Brooklyn Boys), suspicious neighbors and an occasional crooked law official or two either paved the way or set up obstacles for the _Mob_. But, what else would you expect during these fast and loose times?

No alliance is too strong, no bond too great. The only thing that is worth anything is money…

Money. Cash. Moolah. Bread. Banknotes. Green. Dough. Kale. Mazuma. Scratch. Voot.

Whatever you want to call it, they want it. They crave it. They live it. They have it.

But it's never enough. Even the notorious mobster wants more. And will do anything to get it.

There was only one thing that might get in the way of all their petty desires and dire ambitions—family. Not only do these street rats turned mobsters consider their own ties enough to make them family but many of them have their own blood-kin to support. They justify their illegal actions for that family—explain away all their wrong-doings in the name of a wife and a child; at the same time, they all deny their lust of wealth in favor of that family.

The heads of these respective gangs were no different: Jack Kelly had a daughter; Spot Conlon had a son. If you had the opportunity to ask either of these men, both would answer that family was the most important thing to either of them—even more than the lure of ill-gotten money. But, would they agree when _everything—_their reputation, their business, their _wealth_—was at stake?

All it took was one night. One stupid argument. One accidental gunshot. One rash decision. One notion of revenge. One chance to make the right choice.

And that is where this story begins…

* * *

Author's Note: _05.14.06; Yes, it seems that _Never Enough _is the next story of mine that will be rewritten, edited and such. Just like CLAK, OYA, and AtEotR, I decided to combine chapters, change certain lines and redo the dialogue. But, unlike the other three redone fics – all of which were completed when I redid them – I decided to take this unfinished work and continue it. The introduction of Reagan Malloy illustrates the first real chapter to this story. Initially posted in August 2002, and last updated in September 2003, it has taken me three years to rework this story. I hope anyone who decides to read it enjoys :) – Stress _

**ETA:** _10.19.06: Obviously, I'm still working on this story. Now that it's within five or six chapters of the end, and I actually know what's happening, I redid the prologue to match up with the direction the story eventually went. If you are new to the story, this doesn't mean anything -- go on and read, and enjoy! Otherwise, you might want to just read this. It is slightly different._


	2. I

Disclaimer:_ I do not own any of the original Newsies characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters (such as Johnny Conlon and the Finn brothers) that will most likely pop up throughout this work._

_--_

_Part One_

_--_

"Here's the place, right off of Duane Street. Just like that stoolie said."

The hardened police officer motioned upwards at the sign as he and the new rookie approached the small establishment on the corner. It had a great wooden sign hanging over the doorway announcing it as _Ma Kelly's Bakery_. "Bakery, my ass," he snorted as he drew the ends of the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it to the ground. The tip was still burning slightly; he savagely extinguished it with the tip of his worn boot.

His partner stopped right behind him, glancing up at the sign. He had a true leather cowboy hat perched on his fair head but he removed it as he turned towards the older man. "Hey, Sherman," he said, a bit of curiosity seeping into his deep voice, "just what did the informant report?" Something about this whole situation did not sit well with him—and he had a pretty good idea why. _Kelly? It couldn't be… Has to be plenty of Kelly's running around these parts. Yeah… _

Officer Rick Sherman shook his head as he looked over his shoulder at the new cop he had been saddled with. He shrugged.

"Ya see, Jacobs, ever since Prohibition went into effect last year, we've been getting reports about all sorts of illegal joints popping up—speakeasies, undercover pubs… shit like that," he said condescendingly, as if he thought that the young man had no idea as to what had happened ever since the eighteenth amendment went through in January of '20. "Anyway, last night the Chief got a call that the new 'bakery' off of Duane was actually a cover for the latest speakeasy the Manhattan Mob set up. You gotta love that Jack Kelly—he's got balls, I'll give him that," Sherman added, absently gesturing at the rather large print spelling out the Kelly surname in a flowery script.

With every additional word that fell out from between Sherman's mustachioed face and sneering lips, Lester Jacobs was beginning to feel all the more worse for it. And it was not just because this was his first time out for the NYPD, either. After a ten-year stint in New Mexico, where he fell into the unlikely career of law enforcement—wrangling all sorts of crooks out West—he had finally decided to return to his hometown, in an effort to be closer to his family; his mother and father were growing older and his brother's young wife was pregnant with their second child. It was, he believed, finally time to return East.

However, if there was one thing that Les had not expected when he arrived, it was that he would be confronted with how different things were now than they had been before he left. In the three days since his train had rolled into the City he had heard more than one muffled reference to this Manhattan Mob—not to mention its ruthless leader: Jack Kelly.

When he was younger Les had known a Jack Kelly; the wannabe cowboy had been a friend of Les's older brother, David, and Les had found him to be an amazing, if reluctant, role model.

Even as he aged, Les felt a fondness for, and kinship with, Jack—in fact, it had been Jack who had enticed young Les to follow his dreams and become a copper; it was due to Jack's own personal dreams that Les eventually ended up as an officer in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

It was not as if Les wanted to take the trip out West; as he prepared to leave New York behind him, Les had tried his best to convince Jack to go with him but his attempts, all of them, had been in vain. Jack had gotten married near six years prior to a girl who had sold papers with them when they were younger and Stress—who no longer went by her old nickname but, instead, her given name of Jessa—bluntly told him that their place was in New York. Jack had reluctantly agreed.

But Les, knowing that his destiny was elsewhere, still left. It had been the year 1911 when he finally bid his family and friends farewell; he was twenty-one years old.

_"Hey, Cowboy, my train sets out West tonight," Les said, a stuffed luggage-case in each hand. He could not believe the time had finally come; he had kissed his Mama and Pop goodbye and knew that David was going to accompany him down to the station. He only had one more set of goodbyes to make before leaving. "Ya know, there's still time if you want to go with me to Santa Fe." _

_Jack was standing on the cement stoops that led to the old apartment building he lived in with his family. It may not have been the classiest place, or in the best part of town, but it was his home. "I'm sorry, Les, but I'm an old man now," he said, letting out a friendly chuckle. Jessa was standing next to him, clumsily wiping her tear-filled eyes on a dishtowel, as she shook her head at her husband's playful attitude. "Besides, Les, I got my own family to take care of now." _

_As if on cue, a little girl—nearly six years old—with brown curls and bright green eyes, so like her mother's, came running round Jessa's skirt until she found Jack's strong legs. She wrapped her arms around his pants and started to grin cheekily up at him. There was still a hint of her supper dirtying her cheeks. "Daddy, daddy! We gotta go play! I wanna, wanna play!" _

_Les placed his cases down on the sidewalk and moved forward. When he got to the porch, he hiked up his pants and squatted down, reaching his hand out. He ruffled her hair and winked once at the child before lifting his head up, looking up at the child's father. "You ain't that old, Jack, only twenty-nine, and you could always bring Jess and Frannie with you." _

_Jack did not say anything right away. Instead, he leaned down and pried his daughter's hold from around his leg. He lifted her up and placed a kiss on top of her head before passing her along to his wife. "Jess, could you bring Frannie inside the apartment? I'll be right inside." _

_She took the child, the dishrag held tightly in her hands, and awarded him a chaste kiss on her husband's cheek. Then, the child resting on her hip, she stepped down off the stoop and gave one to Les. There were more tears in her green eyes but she smirked at him. "Do me proud, Les, but don't forget us." _

_Les, who now towered over the women he had known for over a decade, wrapped his arms around both her and Frannie. "I could never forget you, Stress. And, I promise, I won't be gone long." He dropped his arms and took at step back. "Just going out to see a bit of the world, that's all." _

_"I haven't been called 'Stress' in years." She was still smiling up at him, but he it was not difficult to see that she was upset that he was leaving. Goodbyes, they both knew, were always so difficult. And, in that day and age, it seemed like all any of them ever did was say goodbye. _

_"Yeah, and it still suits you," he joked, trying to make light of the mood. He grinned broadly and ruffled Frannie's head one last time. _

_"Be good, Les," the woman told him and, with one last cheeky grin, started back into the open door behind her. _

_"Yeah, you, too." _

_He watched the two Kelly girls walk away but his attention was not on them for long. Once Jess had taken the child with her into the apartment building, Jack purposely took Les by the shoulder and guided him to a shoe-shiner stool at the end of the block. He pointed at it. "Shine my shoe, Les?" _

_Les laughed. It was one of those jokes between him and Jack that never got tired. In the years that he had known Jack, Les figured he must have been asked to shine his shoes no less than a hundred times. "In your dreams, Cowboy." _

_Jack joined in on the laughter; nevertheless, there was a bit of a wistful smile on his face. "Can you believe it's been almost twelve years since the strike?" _

_Les shook his head, the laughter a faint echo. All he and the other guys—guys he used to sell papers with before they all seemed to just… grow up—had done since he announced that he was leaving the city—the first of them all to get out of New York—was reminisce. Even all these years later, the strike was still a favorite topic of talk. "Not at all. It seems like only yesterday," he said, fondly remembering his youthful days and that old wooden sword he had been so fond of. Vaguely, he wondered whatever happened to it. _

_Jack nodded and, staring straight ahead, began to speak to Les. "I know, but it's been awhile. And we've all grown and changed. Now it's your turn, Les. I just want to say… take care. You're going to get to live my dream while I stay back here in the city. Let me know if the sun's any bigger, eh? Sarah used to tell me it was the same sun, you know." _

_Les sighed. He had kind of hoped that Jack would not have felt the need to mention Sarah on his last day in the city. Sarah, Les' only sister—and the girl that Jack had courted before he married Jess—had died the previous winter of typhoid fever. She was only twenty-seven. _

_"I'll be sure to let you know, Jack," Les agreed before glancing down at the pocket watch David had given him for his twenty-first birthday. "Damn. I hate to leave now, but I've got to get a move on. The train waits for no man." _

_Jack nodded silently, tired of saying goodbye already; he preferred, just then, to remain lost in the memory of one of his best friends. Even after their separation, Jack and Sarah had remained close. And she was gone… now it was Les's turn. _

As he stood there, no longer glancing at Sherman but, instead, glaring at the sign above him, Les felt himself get swept up in the memory of one he had considered his close friend. He was no longer the little boy that Jack had known, nor was he the young man he had been when he left Manhattan ten years ago; instead, he was a grown man, returned to the City to continue his life of stamping out crime. The ten years, he knew, had changed him… how had they changed Jack?

Oh, they had stayed in touch for awhile after Les left but, in time, the letters stopped arriving—and stopped being sent. In fact, the only one that he habitually heard from was his brother, David. David had gotten married not but two years after Les struck out on his own, but Les had not been able to come back—in fact, he still had not met his sister-in-law, Cassie, or his young nephew, David Junior. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Les tucked away the urgency of getting reacquainted with his old family and friends; as far as they knew, he was still in Santa Fe.

He had thought that his return to New York would be a surprise. Only then, as he shook his head just a bit, did he think that maybe the true surprise was on him.

_There's no way that Jack would… I mean, sure it's one thing to steal a loaf of bread when you're starving, or take part in a rally turned riot… but to run a Mob? It's gotta be a coincidence… right? _

"Hey, Jacobs?" Rick Sherman's abrupt, no-nonsense scratch of a voice broke through Les's thoughts, reminding him that he was there to do a job. Les jerked his head so that it looked like he was paying attention to what his partner was barking about. "Are you coming or not? We gotta go see if the missus is in."

"Oh, yeah, Sherman. I'm ready," he said, nodding quickly. However, before he moved to follow Sherman another step, he turned around and opened the police car. He dropped his cowboy hat onto the passenger seat before slamming the door shut.

The way he figured it, if it turned out that this 'Ma Kelly' was really a Mrs. Jack Kelly—and that Mrs. Jack Kelly was Jess—and he was arresting her, Les most definitely did not want to be recognized. He was pretty damn sure that a worn cowboy hat might just do the trick of trudging up old memories.

"So, Jacobs, since this is your first day out in the city," Rick began gruffly—Les tried his hardest not to groan; he lived in Santa Fe for ten years and now he was branded as country folk—"I think I'll handle this one. How's that sound?"

He snorted. "Whatever you say, _pardner_."

Sherman nodded tersely, missing the sarcasm entirely. He drew himself up to his full height, though he was still considerably shorter than Les, before trying to open the door. To no one's surprise, the two police officers found the door locked. Sherman sighed and, folding his meaty hand into a fist, rapped on the door. After about five minutes of silence—where the two men waited, without a word—the door finally opened inward.

Without meaning to, Les inhaled deeply in surprise when he saw who it was; if he had not known that more than twenty years had gone by he would have assumed that the young woman standing in the doorway was Stress. With long, wild brown curls, bright green eyes and a red bandana tied under her hair, her identity was obvious: itt was Frannie—Frances Anna Kelly—Jack and Jessa's only child.

"Can I help you, sirs?" she asked, the perfect picture of innocence—except for the haughty smirk that crossed her sweet face. _Yes, definitely Jack's daughter. _

Sherman stepped forward, leaving Les behind him to continue staring at the girl. "We're here to see this Ma Kelly. Or Jack Kelly. Whichever one is here."

"Jack Kelly? Jack Kelly…" she said, as if she was trying to placing the name. She shook her head. "Never heard of him," she added before starting to close the door.

Sherman was too quick for the girl. Sticking his heavy boot into the clean threshold, he effectively created a doorstop; as soon as he was sure that the door would not close the police officer pulled his badge out of his jacket pocket. "Girlie, I know that one of them is here and, if you don't want to be sent to the Refuge for contempt, you better go on and get them."

The girl's green eyes darkened as she narrowed them on the badge. Her lips moved slightly as she read the engraved information. She scowled. "Of course, _sir,_" she said before turning around and disappearing into the depths of the bakery.

Wishing he had thought to stop and obtain a warrant so that he could follow that girl into the bakery, Sherman began to search his pockets for a cigarette. A good dose of nicotine would do to settle his nerves; he had never been so close to catching the Manhattan Mob leader before and it was making him antsy. However, when he bent his head down to light his cigarette, Les snuck past him and stepped into the bakery.

Les glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Sherman had not followed him in. When he was sure that the coast was clear, he made his way further into the building before glancing around. He did not see where the girl had gone until he noticed that there was a stairwell just off to the right. Quickly, he tiptoed down the first few steps.

It was when he was about three or four steps down that Les paused. He heard a set of voices, whispering a quick conversation; straining his ears, Les tried to listen to what they were saying.

"Ma? There are two coppers outside waiting for you. They seem to know all about the joint and I couldn't shake them. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to go get Daddy?" _Frannie. _

"Don't worry, Frankie," began another voice, feminine and powerful, "I'll see what they want." Les knew that voice, too. _That was Jess, all right. But Frankie, what? How the heck did they ever get that name from Frances? And for a girl? Yeah… _

"Stress, Cowboy says we ain't ever to let you leave alone. What if one of those Brooklyn bummers got you? You know we're in the middle of that turf war with them." _Mush? Is that Mush? He's still around. Never woulda guessed that one. _

There was a sigh followed by Jess's sharp voice. "First of all, Mush, please call me by my name. I'm pushing forty, now, and, you know, I just don't think 'Stress' suits me any more. And, second of all, you know as well as I do that I can take care of myself. The only reason that Jack doesn't want me going out alone is so I don't run off with a younger man and leave him all by his self."

Mush chuckled. "Man alive, I hope me and my Gabe never get like you and Jack."

When Jess joined in with the quick laughter and began to ask about Mush's wife, Gabriel, and their three children, Little Elissa and the twins, Elijah and Faith, Frankie cut in. She sounded frustrated. "Ma, in case you are forgetting, those coppers are still waiting for you up there."

The laughter and reminiscing stopped at once and Jess sighed again. "You're right as always, Frankie. Here, let me just grab a purse and I'll go see what they want."

"But Stress—"

"_Jess_, Mush."

"Jess," he corrected automatically, "Cowboy's gonna have my head if I let you get arrested. You know that."

There was an awkward silence that lasted for only a terse moment. Les strained his hearing further to see if he was missing any of the conversation and grinned when he heard Jess sigh for the third time. She was giving in. "All right Mush, Frankie. Shut up the operation here and then go tell Jack that I've gone down to the station. He'll know what to do. He always knows what to do."

When Mush spoke again, Les could almost hear the smile that had to be on the olive-skinned man's face. "Doesn't he, Jess?" There was another laugh, deep and relieved. "I like that plan. C'mon, Frankie, let's go."

* * *

Author's Note: _01.27.07; As this story wraps up, I decided to go back and rewrite the first few chapters. Just little things - mainly detail and whatnot - but, I like it better now. I hope you do, too. – Stress _


	3. II

Disclaimer:_ I do not own any of the original Newsies characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters (such as Johnny Conlon and the Finn brothers) that will most likely pop up throughout this work._

_--_

_Part Two_

_--_

Les heard the footsteps as they started to head towards the very staircase where he was standing. _Shit_, he swore inwardly as he quickly stepped backwards up the steps and made his way out the open door. The last thing he needed was to be caught snooping around the inside of the bakery without a warrant, old friends or not.

Sherman, nearly done with his cigarette, glanced up when Les emerged from the small building; he looked annoyed. "Where've you been, kid?"

He thought it was a bit rich that this man believed that it was professional to refer to him as 'kid', especially since Les was in his thirties and Sherman was no more than twenty years older than that, but he chose to bypass that. Instead, he lied. "Me, uh, I went inside… to look for a john. Yeah."

"This is a bakery, sir. The only facilities we have inside are water closets," interrupted a feminine voice.

As one, both Sherman and Les spun around to meet the proprietor of the bakery. There, standing in the doorway of the place, arm draped casually along the threshold, was a middle-aged woman, though her face denied it, with her long light brown curls clipped delicately at the nape of her neck. She wore a beautiful salmon-colored dress that made her appear all the more innocent, though there was an unmistakable glimmer in her green eyes that revealed more of her true personality. No doubt about it, this was the woman he remembered.

Sherman ran his eyes up and down her form, a base smile curling his lips around his cigarette from underneath his graying mustache. "Mrs. Kelly, I presume?"

She did not return his grin. "Yes sir, _Mrs. _Kelly."

"And would that make your husband Jack Kelly, as in the head of the Manhattan Mob?" It could never be said that subtlety was one of Rick Sherman's strong points.

Though she scoffed inwardly, Jessa chose to bring a puzzled expression to her face. "Well, they do call my husband Jack, sir. But part of the Manhattan Mob? I don't think so." _Saps… _

Sherman sneered as he took the still smoking cigarette out from between his lips and dropped it at his feet. Deliberately taking his time he stubbed it out before looking up, his dark eyes almost dancing. "Don't play around with me, toots. Jack Kelly runs the Manhattan Mob, you know it and I know it. And we both know what sort of place you're running here, _Ma Kelly_. My boys are going to be back here tonight with a search warrant and such to shut your ass down. And, to make sure you don't run off and tell your husband or one of his boys, we're booking you. Now. Let's go."

Jess sighed dramatically, acting as if this was something she went through everyday. But then again, Les thought to himself, if she _was_ married to a crime leader, perhaps it _was_ something she went through everyday.

Les watched, almost as if he was a spectator, rather than a cop, as Sherman led Jess over to the squad car and opened the door. He guided her into the back seat before slamming the door shut.

He waited until Sherman was walking over to his side of the police car before approaching the back seat door. He knocked on her window once and stared right into her eyes when she looked up. _Does she remember me?_ Les wondered momentarily as his right hand groped for his door handle.

When Jess stared at him for a moment longer before returned to studying her fingernails, Les felt partly relieved and somewhat disappointed at the same time. _Maybe it's a good thing that she doesn't remember me… it'll make my job a heck easier_, he thought to himself as he took his seat next to Sherman and waited for him to start the car. Still he could not help feeling hurt that one of his oldest friends had forgotten him.

Meanwhile, in the back seat, Jess was all but chuckling to herself. _So, Les is back in town. Wait until Jack finds out_, she thought gleefully to herself, staring at the brown cowboy hat that the young man had placed on his head. _Yes… this will be interesting. _

--

Jack 'Cowboy' Kelly was sitting at his grand mahogany desk, a look of determination on his handsome face. He straightened the red tie he wore over his dark suit and grinned, his canine teeth nearly visible over his thin lips. "Okay, boys. Here's the plan for the night. Blink," he said, turning to the blond man that sat in one of the two seats across from him, "you and Race are to take the booze down to the bakery for storage. Then, when we know that we don't have any coppers on our tail, we'll head on over the bridge into Brooklyn for delivery."

Hayden 'Blink' Moore nodded his understanding. "I gotcha, Boss."

However, the short, dark-haired man that was sitting (uncharacteristically) quietly in the seat besides Blink shook his head a bit as he leaned forward. "I don't know, Cowboy. That's Conlon's territory. You know we ain't allowed over there," Anthony 'Racetrack' Higgins countered, drumming his manicured nails against Jack's desk. "Don't you remember what happened to Crutchy? The last time that we thought we could take the Brooklyn Boys head on?"

Jack, who had been sitting straight in his chair, slouched slightly. His brown eyes closed momentarily and he exhaled. Of course he remembered what had happened to Crutchy—it had been his fault, after all.

Danny 'Crutchy' Younger had been his best runner. Because of his exaggerated limp and trademark crutch, no copper ever expected him of doing anything wrong. In truth, Crutchy had made quite a few friends among the NYPD; those alliances, in turn, helped immensely in orchestrating and continuing Jack and the Mobs' many underhanded dealings.

Until one day, last year, that was. Jack had loaded up a trunk full of moonshine and sent both Crutchy, and the driver—a man called Itey Rotelle—over into Brooklyn to meet up with his contact, Joey 'No Brains' McFay. It would be the last time he would see Crutchy alive.

_"So, Crutchy, you got all the stuff set up?" Jack asked as he helped Crutchy into the passenger side of the Model T. "Everything's good? You know the plan?" _

_Crutchy grinned his lopsided grin as he set his wooden crutch over his lap. "Sure thing, Boss. Me and Itey here," he said, pointing to the driver that accompanied him in the automobile, "we're going to drive into Brooklyn and meet 'No Brains' down at the harbor to give him this week's shipment to keep his pub opened. The transaction between me and him will take no time. Heck, I'll even be back in time to meet up with Lila's new boyfriend." He gave a little laugh. _

_Jack nodded as he shut the door and bent down to speak to Crutchy through the open window of the car. "How is Li doing? Is she giving you and Jo a hard time? Fifteen is a tricky age, you know. I swear, every day I think Jess is going to kill Frankie. But then I remind her what she was like back when we was kids selling papes and she leaves Frankie be." _

_Crutchy laughed again, heartier this time. "Oh, Lila's great, Jack. I always knew Jo would make a great mother. I mean, she's a great wife after all." The love and respect he felt for his wife was obvious in his adoring tone but Jack was too used to it to notice. Crutchy had gone after Josephine for years before she finally consented to go out on the town with him. Now, nearly twenty years later, they were happily married and neither could imagine a life without the other. _

_Jack slapped the side of the car and straightened up. "Well, boys, good luck tonight. Itey, make sure you keep the car running while Crutchy handles the deal. Just in case… ya know?" _

_"Yeah, Cowboy. I know." Itey smiled as he revved the car and, waving his farewells to Jack, began to drive off towards the bridge. _

_The ride to Brooklyn was a quick one, spent mostly discussing Anya, Itey's wife, and Jo. Given that their wives were quite the chums—there was almost a female chitchat club amongst the Mobs' womenfolk—the conversation kept them occupied until Itey pulled the car onto the docks. Crutchy tapped him on the arm—his signal for the driver to stop the car. "Park here, Itey. I think I see 'No Brains'." _

_Itey nodded and, without a word, slowed the car to a stop. However, he did not turn the key in the ignition; instead, he left it running, just like he had told Cowboy he would. "Make it quick, Crutchy. I promised Anya that I'd be home before eleven so that we could double with Mush and Gabe at the new joint Cowboy opened up." _

_As Crutchy hobbled out of the car, still using a crutch—though this one was much stronger, and more expensive than the one he had used during his youth—he laughed. "You mean the bakery, Itey?" _

_"Yeah, the bakery," Itey agreed, smiling back. "Now, go. And be careful, Crutchy." _

_Crutchy nodded. "Don't worry, I'll be right back." _

_Itey watched as Crutchy limped about forty feet from the car to meet up with a shadowed figure. Even in the dark of the night, with the moon as the only light on the docks, Itey could see that the figure was clad in a trench coat and a black derby. _

_Something clicked for Itey just then. Derby? 'No Brains' never wore a derby, let alone any hat. That was how he had gotten his nickname, after all. One night, he was out with one of the streetwalkers he was acquainted with when one of Conlon's boys had shot at him. His head, his hat-free head, had been grazed and he had begun to bleed. Since it wasn't a direct hit or a deep cut or anything, he was fine, but Specs, who had been the one to bandage him up, cracked that there were no brains in his head. _

_The only thought that ran through Itey's brain at the moment was simple: _That ain't 'No Brains'…_ And, as quick as he could, Itey reached for his door and made to get out of the car. "Crutchy! Watch it!" _

_But he was too late. As he reached his head out of the vehicle he saw the shadowy figure open his trench coat, pull out a standard machine gun and, in the split second that Crutchy had turned his back to see why Itey had yelled to him, shoot Crutchy eight or ten times right in the back. There was a moment when the world seemed to freeze before the murderer turned and, still running, hopped into a nearby car that Itey had not noticed. Before Itey could even blink, the car was gone. Crutchy's assailant had fled. _

_When his bodily functions returned, allowing him to move, Itey stumbled over himself in order to run over to the spot where Crutchy had fallen. "Crutchy?" he whispered. "Pal?" _

_But it was no use. Crutchy lay dead on the docks, a dark crimson pool of blood already spreading out beneath his body. _

_Dead… _

_Itey felt a hot surge of anger as he wordlessly picked up his friend's limp body and half-carried, half-dragged him back to the car. Though it would be easy to just throw Crutchy over into the water he knew Jo would feel better if Crutchy was at least given a proper funeral. He deserved that bit of respect, at least. _

_He propped Crutchy's fallen body up on the passenger seat, ignoring the blood staining the interior. But, before he walked around back to his side of the car, he headed over to where Crutchy had been gunned down. "Why'd it have to be Crutchy?" he whispered to the air as he bent down and picked up the wooden crutch. _

_Then, as he turned to go back to the car, all thoughts of his dinner plans with Anya driven from his mind, he noticed the white piece of paper drifting in the still wind. He quickly reached over and pocketed the paper. There was no need to read it; sadly, he was sure he knew what it said. _

_It was a slow and somber drive home as Itey sat in the car next to the dead body of his once lively friend; luckily, though, there were no coppers on the streets to notice the awkwardness of the situation. Itey continued to stare numbly ahead as he pulled up to the penthouse apartment where Jack and his family lived. It was after ten; Jack should be home getting ready to go out. _

_He entered the apartment building, ignoring the questioning looks the young doorman gave him—he was well aware of the liberal amounts of blood that covered his black suit. Rather than chance using the elevator and being forced to make conversation with the operator, he chose to walk up the fifteen flights of stairs that it took to get to the Kelly's apartment door. As he stood in front of it, he took a calming breath and knocked. _

_Jessa answered the door. "Hel— Itey? Oh, no. What happened?" she whispered as she stepped aside and let him in the door. Itey did not say a word as he removed his hat and stepped inside the room. They had all been through this routine before. Jess was already doing her part: calling for her husband. "Jack? Jack, honey?" _

_"Yes, dear?" Jack responded, calling from the bedroom. When Itey had assumed that Jack was currently getting ready for the evening, he had been correct. _

_Jess spared one further glance at Itey before changing the tone of her voice. While it had been confused before, now she sounded urgent. "Could you come out here, please? There's someone here to see you." _

_The pair of them heard the sound of a closet door slamming before, "I'll be right out, Jess." There was a moment of quiet, followed by a set of footsteps that echoed throughout the hallway. Before long, the tall man had entered the foyer. _

_As soon as he saw what was before him, the grin on his face melted into a look of concern. "Itey? Holy shit, what happened?" _

_There was no easy way to say this and, unfortunately, Itey knew that the best way to handle this situation was to simply tell the truth. "Crutchy got offed down at the docks, Boss," he said slowly, his hands shaking slightly. He let the news sink in for a moment before reaching trembling fingers into his pocket and handing Jack the white piece of paper he had picked up at the docks. _

_Slowly Jack unfolded it and cast a simple glance over the simple block print: _

Jacky Boy —

How many times have I told you? Brooklyn is mine. Stay the fuck out.

—Boss Conlon

_Spot Conlon… he should have known. _


	4. III

Disclaimer:_ I do not own any of the original Newsies characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters (such as Johnny Conlon and the Finn brothers) that will most likely pop up throughout this work._

_--_

_Part Three_

_--_

_Jack crumpled up the white piece of paper at once, refusing to acknowledge the meaning of that simple threat; it was enough to know that Spot's territorial actions had led to Crutchy—Crutchy!—being killed. _

_Crutchy had not been just one of his lackeys; he had been his friend and now… now he was gone. And Jack knew that, as the head of the Manhattan Mob, he shouldn't let his emotions get to him; after all, this wasn't the first comrade he had seen go. First it was Snitch who got shot in the gut and died, then little Snipes and even Pie Eater… but this one was different. This one was personal. _

_"What is Spot playing at?" he growled, his brown eyes wide with obvious anger. "Crutchy was never a threat and now he's fucking dead. Damn it!" He threw the crumpled paper down as he distractedly paced the front foyer, back and forth, back and forth, in frustration. _

_Jess hiked up the skirt of her long, tan dress before stepping over the discarded paper and approaching her husband. She reached out a slender hand, settling it reassuringly on the shoulder of his suit jacket. "Jack," she began, adopting a sweet and soothing tone that Jack responded to immediately; he stopped pacing, though his skin had paled considerable, "what are you going to do about Jo?" _

_Jack slumped his shoulders then, Jess's hand falling to her side. He sighed; she could tell that the thought had already occurred to him but he'd been doing his best not to think on it. "I'm gonna have to tell her, won't I? Just like I had to tell Rae and the other girls when their husbands bit it." He shook his head, his leadership qualities taking over as he focused on other orders of business. "Itey, where's Crutchy? Please tell me you didn't leave him there…" _

_Itey shook his head. "No, boss. His body's in the car right downstairs. I kind of figured it would be best to bring him back with me." _

_Jack looked relieved as he clapped a strong hand on Itey's diminutive shoulder. "Good man. Now, Itey, I want you to begin to make the funeral arrangements," he told Itey as he turned his back on the two of them and walked in to the kitchen. He returned a moment later, his twenty-year-old faded cowboy hat in hand, "and Jess, you're going to come with me." _

_Jess sighed to herself when she saw the hat; she knew where they were going. Jack only took out his most trusted cowboy hat, the one he bought to replace the one he gave to Les when the Newsies Strike of '99 had ended, when he had to do something he didn't want to do. _

_Like telling one of his friends that her husband had been murdered… _

--

"Hey, Jack?" Blink asked, hanging back and away from Jack's desk. Truth be told, there was a worried quality to his voice as his one good eye looked over his old friend. Cowboy was sitting, leaning forward in his chair, his hands clasped before him—but he was not saying a word. He was, quite obviously, lost in thought. "You alright, Boss?"

He didn't get an answer. Jack ignored him.

--

_With a grim expression on his face and his body set in a determined stance Jack knocked on the Younger's apartment door. _Knock, knock, knock.

_"Gimme a second, I'm coming," called a voice in response. There's a mild hopping sound, followed by a clunk before the door was opened. On the opposite side of the door stood a woman with long, brown hair pulled back into a bun, dark blue eyes and a white heel's strap clamped between her teeth. She removed her shoe from her mouth and dropped it on the floor before waving happily—and distractedly—at the couple standing outside of her apartment. _

_"Jack, Jess, how nice of you two to stop by." Jo stepped aside, kicking her shoe out of their way with her stocking-covered foot, in order to let them into the front room of her apartment. Jo was not the only woman caught between getting ready; there was a second woman—tiny and prim with her short, curly red hair cut in a stylish bob—sitting at the table, putting the finishing touches on her make-up. "Me and Lorelei here were just getting ourselves all dolled up so Hayden and Danny can take us out after they get off of work." _

_Lorelei smiled at the Kelly's. "Hi," she greeted the pair, setting her compact and mascara down on the table. She gestured for them to join her around the oblong, wooden structure. "Take a seat, guys, we've got a bit until the boys return." _

_Jack offered Blink's wife a half-hearted wave before jerking his head in Josephine's direction. "That's okay but, Jo? Can I… can I talk to you alone? It's important." _

_Before Jo had the opportunity to answer, Jess jumped in, drawing Lorelei's attention over to her. "Hey Lor, do you think you could, uh, you could come with into the bathroom." She lifted her hands up and pulled at a loose curl. "I could use some help with my hair." It was a lame excuse at best but Jess knew from past experience that when Jack had to deliver such news, it was best if he did it without an audience. _

_Jack opened his mouth to thank his wife before remembering what he had come here to do. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the curious expression—curious with a hint of nerves; it was never good to receive a serious visit from Jack Kelly—on Jo's face and he felt his stomach drop. You never got used to this part of the job. _

_Once Jess had led Lorelei out of the parlor and into the bathroom on the other end of the apartment, Jack led Jo, still wearing only one shoe, over to the couch. "Jo, I think you should sit down." _

_Maybe it was the serious way he looked at her, or the grave tone of his voice, but all of a sudden, she knew. "Where's Danny?" she whispered, one hand covering her mouth as her dark blue eyes narrowed on Jack. He could see that it was trembling but her voice was strong. "Where's my husband, Jack?" She did not sit down. _

_Jack gulped, his hands folded behind his back as he stood his ground. "I'm sorry, Jo, but he's gone." _

_"Gone?" _

_Despite having had to tell various other comrades about the deaths of Mob members, it never got any easier—and it was always so very difficult for those closest to the deceased to understand. It always came down to spelling it out. "Yes. Gone. Dead." He hated to be so brash but, sometimes, that was all he could do. "Crutchy was making a run over in Brooklyn tonight when he was shot." _

_She sat down. Taking in a deep breath, trying not to show too much emotion, Jo looked up at Jack, "Where is he?" _

_"Itey got his body and brought it back. I had one of the boys bring it over to Stan, down at the funeral parlor. The service will be in two days." _

_Jo listened to his words, all the while nodding slowly. The words washed over her like the waves at high-tide and, when they seemed to finally make their meaning known to her, the tears began to flow. Through them, she asked, "Why, Jack? Why Danny? He never hurt anyone…" _

_Jack just leaned over and wrapped his arms around her as she cried. The silent tears changed seamlessly into wracking sobs but he kept his hold. She was still asking him why. He swallowed back the large lump that was growing in his throat. "Why? I can't answer that question for you, Jo, but I can take care of the scum who did this. And I will," he murmured, stroking her hair. _

I will_, he vowed to himself. _

--

"Jack? There's someone at the door. Should we answer it? They know the knock," Race announced, interrupting Jack's thoughts by gentling shaking his shoulder. His touch was more of a stimulant than Blink's voice and they could see the cloudiness fade from Jack's eyes as he straightened in his seat.

Jack shook the thoughts of Crutchy's death and Jo's heartache from his head as he listened intently at the back door. Race was right. _Rap, rap, tap, rap, tap, tap, rap._ Whoever was standing outside the hide-out's door, they knew the secret knock. "See who it is, Blink," he ordered, jerking his head at his second associate.

Blink reached around Race and picked his gun up from Jack's desk before walking to the door. "Who is it?" he asked menacingly, raising his gun just in case. "Gimme your name."

A female voice called back; she sounded exasperated. "It's me, Mr. Blink. Frankie. I got Mr. Mush with me and I gotta get inside to see my daddy. It's important."

Jack stood up suddenly, pushing his chair away from his desk. Guilt turned to anger as he heard his teenaged daughter's words filter in through the reinforced door. He had given Mush specific orders to watch Jess tonight until he had made it back to the speak-easy that night. If it was just Mush and Frankie, where the hell was Jess? "Let them in, Blink."

Blink nodded, stuck his handgun in the waist of his trousers and opened the door. He shut it swiftly behind Mush and Frankie once they entered Jack's office.

Frankie ran to her father's desk and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "Hiya, Daddy."

Jack ruffled Frankie's curls and smiled. "Hey there, Precious. Where's your mother?" He addressed the last question to his daughter while eyeing Mush, who began to teeter on his heels nervously.

"Uh, Jack?"

"Where's Jess, Mush?"

"She, um, she…" Mush stammered. He really didn't want to let Jack know.

But Frankie was more than happy to fill her father in. "She got arrested, Daddy. These two coppers came to the bakery tonight and asked to see Ma. I told them to get lost, but they threatened me with the Refuge. I made them wait to see if Ma would talk to them and she went to see them. You know how stubborn she gets. Anyway, she said to shut the operation up over there and tell you what happened and to meet her down at the Station."

Jack smacked his hand against his desk, startling Mush and causing Race to shake his head. "Damn it, Jess, why can't that woman just listen to me for once!" he roared, letting some of his frustration out, knowing that his words meant nothing. She hadn't listened to him once in all the years they had known each other so why would she start now?

He grimaced as pain shot through his hand; he shook it once and shoved it into his pocket as he grabbed his own gun and placed it inside the lining of his jacket. "Okay, boys. We're going to have to work on our plans later, I've got a wife to save."

* * *

Author's Note:_ 07.29.07; Once again, I'm trying my best to finish this sucker up. First, though, I'm redoing the first couple of chapters and tightening it up. Not much, fixing details and such, but it'll be a bit cleaner now._


	5. IV

Disclaimer:_ I do not own any of the original Newsies characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters (such as Johnny Conlon and the Finn brothers) that will most likely pop up throughout this work._

_--_

_Part Four_

_--_

Jack reached forward and tapped his driver lightly on his arm. "Hey, Boots, we're here at the station. Pull over right there so I can get out. Keep the car running, too, I'll be right back," Jack said as he grabbed his briefcase and shut the car door. It was a small leather case, one he kept filled for emergencies; heading downtown to bail his wife out of jail was one such emergency.

"Of course, Boss. I'll be waiting for you," the young black man answered as he pulled the car he was driving over to the side and left it idling. He lifted up a newspaper to his eyes to use as a front in case any of the police officers wondered what he was doing; those dark eyes, however, were every moving, keeping watch as Jack walked into the police station.

Jack nodded to himself, his head high and his stride purposeful as he walked into the station. He had an authoritative air about him that made him formidable; he seemed to move as if he belonged in this place and, perhaps, it was true. This wasn't the first time he had to go down to the station to bail out one of his associates—but it _was_ the first time it was his wife.

He had only taken a handful of steps into the hustling, bustling building before he was stopped. "Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?" sneered a scruffy looking policeman who sat leaning against a desk. _Sir? Yeah, I don't think so. If it ain't the one, the only mister Jack Kelly standing in the middle of the damn station himself_, Sherman thought as he watched Jack look down upon him, as if he were nothing more than scum on the bottom of his freshly polished cowboy boots.

"I don't know, officer. Can you?" Jack retorted, his temper already close enough to the breaking point. No one talked to Jack Kelly like that, whether they had a police badge or not.

Sherman heard the barely masked anger in Jack's strong voice and smirked. It was, admittedly, most unprofessional but, after all, this moment had been a long time coming; he'd been after the Manhattan Mob leader for nearly half his career. "What do you want, Kelly?"

Jack's eyebrows raised and, for a moment, there was a hint of amusement on his handsome face. It faded as quickly as it came; at once, he was all business. "Nothing you can offer, _sir_," he shot back, putting undue stress on the word 'sir', "unless you can tell me where the hell I can find the district attorney."

Scoffing, Sherman crossed his arms over his chest as he stepped away from the front of his desk, taking a few careless steps towards Jack. "What do you want the D.A. for?"

His only answer was to give his thin lips a simple twitch, just enough to let fly a hint of a smile. His brown eyes were twinkling under the dim police station's light, his temper forgotten, as he dared the older man to ask him another question.

And, just as Jack had known he would, Sherman took the bait. He dropped his hands to his side and barked, "I know what you're here for, Kelly, and, I'll tell ya, it ain't gonna work. You're pretty little wife is staying locked up."

Jack's anger flared at Sherman's flippant tone and his trigger finger itched to reach inside the nestled folds of his jacket lining. But he knew that it would be foolish to draw a weapon in sight of half of the NYPD so he restrained himself; he did, however, point his finger at the officer. "Listen, pal—"

That was as far as he got; just before a very real threat had the chance to be made, someone approached the two men and, with a voice that Jack was very familiar with, said, " Sherman! What in God's name is going on over here?"

As far as Jack was concerned, Calvin 'Swifty' Li had always had a knack for knowing when trouble was brewing. Back when they were kids, lodging together down at the old CAS-run lodging house on Duane Street, that sense had led him to hone the skill that gave him his nickname; whenever Swifty smelled trouble, he ran like the wind.

It was only fitting that now, all those years later, he was the Lower East Side's district attorney. Dressed in a suit and tie that was nearly as flashy and expensive as Jack's own, it was hard to tell that time had passed for the man, but one could tell. He was still thin, tall and lanky, with a shock of dark hair that was slicked back rather than shoved under a ratty cap; Swifty was also sporting a pencil thin mustache and there was a set of glasses poking out from the top of his suit jacket's pocket.

_Ah, Swifty… so good to see you again, _Jack thought to himself, working hard to fight the look of relief that threatened to cross his face. He tightened his grip on the suitcase he was carrying—this was going to work out perfectly for him and his plans of rescuing Jessa.

Jack straightened and Sherman slouched as Swifty continued to question the officer. "Are you… are you _hassling_ this fine gentleman?"

There was a second of silence as the officer tried to find a way of weaseling out of this situation but there was none and he knew it. "District Attorney Li, of course not. I was just… just about to bring _Mr. Kelly_ to see you."

It did not go by unnoticed how he emphasized Jack's name—it was just a pity that poor Sherman had no idea the history that existed between the two men. Swifty had recognized Jack's profile from across the room and had been on his way to greet his old friend—greet, not arrest—when he had heard the heated exchange between the Manhattan Mob leader and the veteran police officer.

Swifty's demeanor and stance did not change. He had folded his hands behind his back as he steely eyed Sherman. "Really? Well, if that's the case, Sherman, please show him to my office."

"It's right back there, Kelly," Sherman said, his teeth gritting in annoyance that the district attorney refused to acknowledge that the man standing with them was a criminal. He raised a grubby hand up to gesture towards the opposite side of the open, yet busy, lobby. "You can't miss it."

"I said show _Mr. _Kelly _to_ my office not show him my office."

With a dirty look that Jack saw but Swifty missed, Sherman snapped, "Of course, sir. Right away, sir."

Feeling pretty smug, Jack nodded towards Swifty. "Thank you, District Attorney Li. I do look forward to speaking with you."

"Yes, Mr. Kelly, likewise. Please make yourself comfortable in my office," he said, and he paused when heard a snort coming from Sherman's direction, "I shall be there momentarily. I just have to have a word with Sherman here, first."

Sherman stiffened as he began to walk away from his desk, obviously intent on bringing Jack to an office that he had seen many times before; pretending that he was unaware where to find the D.A.'s office, Jack followed, all the while thinking, _It's good to have friends in high places… _

--

Once he entered the office, and Sherman left looking annoyed and wary, Jack placed his briefcase purposely onto the strong, sturdy mahogany desk. He then took a seat, content to waiting and watching Rick Sherman being scolded by the district attorney out through the office's window; Jack could not make out any sound but the way that Swifty jabbed his pointer finger at the older man told him all he needed to know and he allowed himself to enjoy a short snicker.

The entertainment did not last and, before long, Swifty left an obviously angered Sherman at his desk. After another moment or two, the door to the district attorney's office opened and Swifty entered, shutting the door and closing the blinds as he made his way inside. When he was positive that none of the other men in the station could see or hear any of what was going on inside the room, he walked right in front of Jack and held out his hand—after spitting into it once, of course.

Jack reciprocated the gesture and the two of them shook briefly until Jack pulled him into a quick embrace. "Ah, Swifty, how is my favorite district attorney today?"

Swifty laughed. "I'm good, Cowboy. Long time, no see, eh?" he asked as he walked around the desk and took a seat, gesturing to Jack to do the same. "It's been… what? Almost a year since the last time you showed your mug around here. Getting pretty brave, aren't ya?"

Jack nodded and sat down in the chair opposite of Swifty's desk. "Of course, of course. And it's been awhile. How've you been? How's Aki?" he asked, referencing Swifty's wife. Like most of the people that Jack knew personally, Swifty and Aki, both, worked as newsies on the Lower East Side at the turn of the century.

When the lure of the streets had faded, the two of them had decided to marry; Aki had gotten a simple job as a cashier at a local store while Swifty ran messages. The dual income, coupled with the fact that they never had children, helped to get Swifty into a shoddy law school; that cheap degree and Jack's early connections had landed him the gig as the district attorney. "Aki's doing great, I'm doing great. What about you, Cowboy? You and Jess doing alright?"

Jack reached up and scratched underneath his chin. "Well, Swift, that's kinda why I'm here to see you today. Seems that while I was… indisposed earlier, two of your officers visited my new bakery and arrested my wife. They said they were suspicious that we had some sort of illegal business going on in there—"

Swifty sat down at his desk before propping his shiny, leather shoes on the top of his desk. "Were you?"

"Yeah, well, that ain't the point, is it? I just want Jess out of that jail cell now."

Sighing, Swifty began to drum his manicured nails against the leg of his pants. "I don't know, Cowboy. Wasn't it only last month that I got Mush and Blink out of the slammer after they were caught smuggling moonshine over in Midtown?"

"I thought you might feel that way so I brought you a gift," Jack replied, pointing to the leather briefcase resting on the desk.

Swifty eyed it greedily before leaning over and unbuckling the case; his eyes glazed over as he eyed all of the crisp bills that were lying inside. "You know, Cowboy, I think there might just be something I can do for you. You're an old friend, after all. Here, let me just find Sherman's paperwork—"

Jack sneered. "Are you telling me that that… _scum_ out there is the one who arrested my wife?"

Swifty nodded as he continued to rifle through stacks of paperwork. "Yes, Lt. Rick Sherman and some rookie from Santa Fe they just dumped on me… ah, here we are," he said, removing a handful of papers from the pile. He straightened the sheaves against the edge of the desk before murmuring, "'Name: Mrs. Jessa R. Kelly.' Yes, that would be her paperwork..."

Then, without another word, the newsboy-turned-attorney quickly began to scan the report to himself, dark beady eyes running through it. He nodded as he processed the dull form only smiling when he got about halfway down the first page. He tapped a finger against it. "I think I found a loophole, Cowboy. Listen: 'Suspect was arrested due to suspicion that she was withholding information about banned liquor at a nearby night club and other illegal business dealings of her husband.'" Swifty lifted his head. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Jack looked thoughtful as he ran the words through his head. Hesitantly he said, "Wait… does that that mean they had no proof when they arrested her? No warrant? No photos? Nothing?"

The district attorney grinned. "Nope, just suspicion."

Jack thought about it for another second. "Then they have no reason to keep her locked up, right?"

"Exactly," affirmed Swifty as he dropped his feet from his desk and stood back up. Briskly, with that same air of authority about him, he stepped out from behind his desk and headed straight towards the door. "Come, Jack. Let's go get her."

Jack was only too pleased to follow the district attorney out of the office; he was ever more pleased when Swifty, who had paused within the middle of the cramped lobby, called over to Sherman. "Lieutenant Sherman? May I speak to you again?"

Sherman strutted over to where Jack and Swifty stood. "Yes?" Upon Swifty's glare, he added, "… sir?"

"What's this?" Swifty asked, waving the paperwork around.

Casting a quick eye over the fluttering pages, Sherman jerked his head, recognizing the sheets. "That? It's the paperwork on that broad me and the kid brought in this afternoon."

"Broad! What the fu—what do you mean by that?" exploded Jack, stepping forward to meet Sherman face-to-face. Not only had he not liked the wary old officer before, but now he was livid to know that it had been Sherman who was responsible for Jess's stint in the prison.

Luckily Swifty had the mind to throw out his arm, effectively stopping Jack in his tracks. "Please calm down, Mr. Kelly. I can handle this." Then, turning back to face Rick, Swifty glowered. "How long have you been on the force?"

Sherman screwed up his face as if the question was a difficult one. Finally, he answered, "About thirty-four years."

"And you still don't know on what grounds you can arrest a person?"

At those words Jack snorted to himself as he remembered something his once ally, now enemy, had said during the infamous newsies strike of '99:

_"Your honor, I object," smirked the young orphan boy, standing in front of the "respected" Judge E.A. Monahan. _

_The elderly judge looked out upon the crowd of ragged newsboys that stood in front of his bench, his eyes lingering on the one boy who had had the nerve to speak in his court room. "On what grounds?" _

_There was a moment of quiet, as if the boy was making sure that everyone was waiting to hear his smartass answer. Only then did he give it: "On the grounds of Brooklyn." _

Swifty and Sherman both shot a look in Jack's direction before Swifty shook his head and continued to question the police officer. "Listen, Sherman, I just went over your report and do you know what I found?"

"What? Sir?" It seemed as if it was very difficult for Rick Sherman to pay respect to anyone.

"This," Swifty snapped, pointing at the report, "'Suspect was arrested due to suspicion that she was...' Suspicion? Surely you know that you can not just arrest a poor woman on _suspicion_. You need proof, man. You need evidence. Not _suspicion_."

"But," Sherman began, trying to defend himself, "I got word from Chief Flannigan that a stoolie called in an—"

"And I'm sure the Chief wanted proof before you stormed in there and arrested the poor woman," interrupted Swifty. "Now, I want you to take Mr. Kelly to his wife and let her out of the holding cell while I go coun— I mean, try to fix the mess you made with this paperwork. Honestly."

"Yes, sir," Rick said in a low voice, as he gestured towards Jack, "Right this way, _Mr._ Kelly."

Jack waited until Rick was a few steps in front of him before turning around and winking at his old friend. "Thanks," he mouthed before following Rick to the holding cells.

--

"Jack, you came!"

It felt good to see his wife in one piece, even if there were prison bars separating them. "Don't worry, honey. I'm getting you out of here," he told her as Sherman instructed one of the guards to open the holding cell's door. The younger officer did before walking away to quiet some of the other prisoners.

"Good, because not only is this cell cramped and cold, it smells funny," she complained. She waited until the door had swung open before sticking her nose up in the air.

Sherman scowled a bit at her complaints. "Sorry about your arrest, ma'am. My mistake," he smirked sarcastically at her as he shut the cell door behind her. He watched as she began to walk towards her husband and… well, he couldn't help it; it was so frustrating to have the Manhattan Mob leader so close but still be so far. So, with a daring gesture, Sherman reached out and smacked her on her rear. "See ya later, toots. And you can hold me to that," he said before turning his back on her and walking away.

Jess whirled around and glared at him. "How dare you!" she retorted, fire in her eyes. All she had wanted to do was go home and wash the jail stink out of her clothing and this worn-down man had the nerve to place his hands on her?

She had half a mind to tell him exactly what he could do with that hand but, before she could, something she saw out of the corner of her eye caught her attention: Jack was reaching in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "Jack, are you mad?" she hissed as he began to withdraw his gun from that pocket. "Put that away right now! Did you forget where you were? This is a police station!"

"But, Jess..."

Wrapping her fingers around his upper arm Jess shot him an annoyed look. "C'mon, you bum, let's get out of here. We can talk about this at home later."

"Whatever you say, honey," Jack sighed as he replaced his gun and led Jess out of the police station to where Boots was still waiting for them outside.

Rick Sherman didn't know just how lucky he was.


	6. V

Disclaimer:_ I do not own any of the original Newsies characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters (such as Johnny Conlon and the Finn brothers) that will most likely pop up throughout this work._

_--_

_Part Five_

_--_

Boots laughed loudly, slapping his knee with the one hand not on the steering wheel, as Jess finished explaining away everything that had happened down at the holding cell; the driver was amused at Jack's ill-thought out attempt to kill the lieutenant. "You tried to off a copper in a _police station_, Boss? What were you thinking?"

"Keep your eyes on the road, Boots," Jack demanded before frowning. He leaned back into the leather seat and shook his head. "Besides, what would you expect me to do? That bastard had his paws on my wife and I wasn't about to just stand there and watch him do it," he said, trying to defend himself.

"And dumb ass here didn't think I could defend myself," Jess added coolly. Jack gave her a pleading look—he hated it when she took that tone of voice with him—but she refused to meet his brown eyes. Instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out a thin black cigarette holder, pausing briefly to insert a cigarette in the tip before lighting it.

"It's not that—wait, what are you doing?" Jack snapped, snatching the lit cigarette from the holder. His actions came before he had a chance to think about what he was doing, the result being that his fingertips were consequently burnt from the fiery embers of the cigarette. He dropped it to the floor of the car, waving his fingers like mad so that the wind he was generating cooled the tips. "I thought I told you that you weren't allowed to smoke."

Jess scoffed as she placed another cigarette in the holder. She did not light it straight away, though; she snorted, quite unladylike, instead. "Francis Sullivan, who do you think you are, telling _me_ what to do?"

Jack ignored the use of his birth name—he had changed it from Francis to Jack so many years ago but it still hurt to be called that—while snatching at Jess' second cigarette. She had been expecting the action; the cigarette was still unlit. "I'm your goddamn husband, _Jessa_, and I don't want to see my wife walking around with a foul cigarette in her mouth."

"But you smoke," she argued, a perfect pout forming on her face.

"And that's beside the point," Jack announced as he leaned forward and kissed his wife on the cheek. Then, noticing that Boots had returned his eyes on the bickering couple instead of the road, he became stern. "Boots, what are you doing? I told you to keep your eyes on the damn road," he said, leaning forward in his seat to scold his lackey.

With his attention no longer focused on her, he gave Jess the perfect opportunity to pick up the lit cigarette that Jack had left on the floor of the sedan. She put it to her lips and took a long drag, holding the smoke in. It was not until her husband stopped lecturing Boots and sat back in his seat that she blew the smoke directly into his scowling face. "Jess…" he began warningly and turned his scowl into a satisfied smirk as Jess sighed and reluctantly tossed the cigarette out of the car.

"There. Happy, Cowboy?"

"Jess, that hurts." Jack hated it when she used his old newsie nickname on him. It made him feel guilty.

"Well, you deserve it, I say. I spent my whole day in a damn cell and all you can say to me is 'don't smoke'. I bet you don't even want to know who I saw down at the station," Jess said, sounding a bit more than annoyed as she placed her chin on a perfectly manicured hand and stared out the open window.

"I'm sorry, Jess, really. Sometimes I just get in my boss mode where I start telling everyone what to do. I mean, there I was having a business meeting with two of my boys when Frankie and Mush came by and told me that you went and got yourself arrested. What happened, dear?" Jack finished his question and reached for Jess' hand, lovingly caressing her cheek with his other hand. "And if that bastard treated you any less than you deserve, that prick Sherman will find himself wishing he did not tangle with Jack Kelly."

Jess sighed and moved her face out of his reach. "Not this again, Jack. If I told you once, I told you a million times. I can handle myself."

"Like you handled yourself with Rip Divenize?" Jack sat back against his seat and turned his head so as not to see her reaction; it was never a good idea to mention the only man who had ever caused his wife problems before she settled down with him.

She looked stunned, then hurt but the vulnerable expressions melted away to fierce anger within seconds. Before Jack understood the magnitude of his words, Jess began to yell at him. "You know what, Jack? Forget it! Forget that you ever came down to the station to get me. Forget you ever cared about me. Forget that I saw Les Jacobs down at that station. Just forget it everything, you big goon!" Jess threw her hands up as she continued to raise her voice with every word. Finally, she took in a deep breath, trying to calm herself down, before leaning forward to speak to the driver. "Boots, stop this car right now. I'm getting out."

Jack watched, almost daring her to do what she threatened to do, as Boots, being the ever obedient lackey he was, slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road. Then, before Jack could say or do anything to stop her, Jess swung her door open and climbed out of the car. "Goodbye, Mr. Sullivan, and good day," she spat before storming away.

He watched her for a moment before realizing what had happened. The mention of David Jacobs' kid brother confused him at first and he stopped to try to figure out what she meant before figuring he had just heard wrong. Then, as he sat, almost dumbfounded, in the car, it dawned on him that his wife was walking off on him. He sighed heavily and climbed out of the car. "Jess? Jessa Kelly, get your ass back here!"

Her only response was to continue to walk away from him, making as if she did not even hear his calls.

Jack continued to stand just outside of the car, marveling at just how stubborn one woman could be. And, yet, that was one of the qualities that had attracted him to her in the first place—not many women would storm away from their mob boss of a husband just to prove a point. Then again, he wasn't about to let her, either.

He began to jog off in the direction Jess had gone in. "Boots," he called over his shoulder to where Boots still had the car idling, "I want you to drive around town and see if you can find Jess before I do. I'm gonna continue going after her. I don't think she understands how dangerous it is for her to be running around by herself right now, so we gotta find her—and quick!"

"No problem, Boss. I'm on it," Boots replied promptly before pulling back onto the road and driving off.

"Good," Jack muttered as he continued to go after his wife on foot. Once he caught up to her, he promised himself, the two of them were going to have a very long talk. Or, better yet, she would have a very long listen.

If it wasn't for the fact that she was his damn wife, he would _kill_ her sometimes.

--

"Of course he had to go and bring up Luke Divenize. Damn it, Jack, that was over twenty years ago. Why can't you trust me?" Jess angrily crossed her arms over her chest, trying hard to resist the urge to throttle something. Sometimes that husband of hers just made her so crazy.

"Hey lady, do you mind?"

Jess turned around and raised her eyebrows when she saw a young couple sitting on a bench right behind her. "Actually, I do mind. What are you going to do about it, boy?" Jess countered, looking down upon the two. What were they going to do to her, anyway? She was Jessa Kelly and no one told her what to do—especially that domineering man she called her husband.

"Look, lady, my friend and I here are trying to have a nice little chat and it's hard for us to concentrate while you're huffing and ranting all over the place. I suggest you take your noise elsewhere." The young dark-haired man stood up from the bench, ignoring the protests of the petite blonde sitting with him, and approached Jess.

Jess, though easily six inches shorter than the man, walked forward and stared up at him. "Look, boy," Jess scolded, her green eyes twinkling as she saw him scowl. If he was going to treat her like an old lady, she would treat him like a little boy. "I think you ought to treat your betters with a little respect, don't you?"

"Oh yeah, lady? And what is a little old thing like you going to do to me?" he asked, before giving her a rough shove.

The push sent her stumbling backwards but she quickly recovered. "That was not polite, son," Jess said warningly before she brought her arm back and let loose with a right hook that, when she was younger, had done plenty of damage.

There were two cracks as her fist made contact with the boy's face; it was hard to tell who was worse off following the strike. The young man reeled backwards, clutching his jaw, as he spit out venomously at Jess, "You old broad. I'm going to fucking get you for that."

Jess was shaking her aching hand but refused to give the boy the satisfaction of seeing how much that hit cost her; she brought a grin to her face instead. She did take a step away from him, just in case, but, before she could say anything in response to his threat, another person entered the clearing. "Jess?"

"Go away, Jack." The triumphant grin faded from her face as she turned to stare stonily at her husband. Unfortunately, this left her vulnerable to any attack from the young man who was currently glaring furiously at her.

As Jess and Jack stared at each other, neither prepared to apologize first, the young man came up with a tactic for revenge. Slowly he crept up behind Jess, hiding a rather large rock that he had found behind his back. But, before he could lift the rock up and drop it on Jess, Jack noticed the movement behind his wife. "Jess, watch out!"

What happened next seemed to play out in slow motion. Just as Jack finished his sentence, Jess turned around to see the man standing right behind her, rock positioned high in the air. At the same moment, Jack reached into his breast pocket, withdrew his pistol and fired one shot at the man who threatened his wife.

As the shot rang out in the air, time seemed to right itself. Jess ducked, covering her head with her hands, as the man dropped the rock and crumpled to the ground. Jack kept his hold on the gun, clasping it tightly in his right hand, as he raced to his wife's side; she was trembling ever so slightly as she knelt on the grass. He crouched down, threw his arms around her and held onto her tightly. "Are you okay, Jessie?"

"I'm—I'm fine," she said, grinning in spite of herself at the mention of Jack's pet name for her, "but I don't think that kid is, though."

Jack gently let go of her and spun around so that he was looking over the body of the young man he had shot. Reaching for the kid's wrist, he paused for a moment before sighing. "He's dead, Jess."

Upon those words, a shriek pierced the night air. The woman—girl, really—that had been with the dead man seemed to have just realized what had happened and was screaming as loud as she possibly could.

* * *

Author's Note: _Just a little note. In case you are not familiar with prior stories centered on Jack and Stress (and there are a bunch, woot!), Luke 'Rip' Divenize is a major character. It is not necessary to know who he is, precisely, for this mention, but - if you do - it's kind of a bit of a tie in. Just thought I would share._


	7. VI

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: Set during Prohibition, two rival gangs – one in Manhattan and one in Brooklyn –duke it out in a battle over the booze. Which side will win the right to provide all of New York with their moonshine? How far will the fight go? And what about Les?

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**_: 05.13.06; Let's just pretend that it has not been three years since the last time I even touched this story. I really did love the premise of this piece when I started it but it just kinda died off. But, with my revival of other Newsies type stories, I thought I would give this one a look over. It needs a little work, and definitely needs to have a few of the chapters condensed – hopefully I'll do that soon. Anywho, I'm gonna try to continue in this. Let's all hope for the best. And, yes, this chapter is short, for two reasons: 1) I'm only just re-doing this story and 2) if you haven't noticed, all the chapters of this have been short. I didn't think it was good to all of a sudden jump to a 2,000+ word chapter like some of my other work. -- Stress._

_---_

Part VI

Reagan Malloy couldn't believe her eyes. It had been started out as such a nice night. She had accompanied one of the Brooklyn Boys', Mickey Finn, to a nearby speakeasy; he had been chasing her skirt for weeks and, under her mother's guidance, she finally agreed to see him. He was, as her mother said, her way into the big time. Mrs. Malloy could not afford to keep her daughter dressed the way the petite blonde deserved to look. If the sixteen year old would work her way into the Brooklyn mafia, she would be set. Reagan finally agreed.

Mickey decided to show off his nerve by bringing her to a Manhattan establishment on their first date. He paraded her around, showing off the gem she was. It had taken him long enough to land her; he was going to show her off. She could only take so much of that before she asked if they could leave. Mickey was only to ready to agree.

But, instead of taking Reagan back to her mother's apartment in Brooklyn, Mickey led her towards a bench underneath a series of trees just on the edge of the Park. She was uncomfortable at their proximity, especially since there was no one nearby. Mickey did not notice her discomfort; instead he just regaled her with his tales of his mob work. At his young age, just past eighteen, he was not more than a minor enforcer. But, as he said time after time, he was rising up quick. Boss Conlon seemed to have taken a liking to him.

His tales were effectively cut off when a classy older women, at least twenty years her senior, came storming across the outer edge of the Park. Her light pink dress swayed against her thin legs as she walked briskly by, mumbling under her breath as she went.

Mickey, always one to start a fight, called out to her to hush. He didn't appreciate that she was interrupting his date. Reagan tried to calm him but she did no good. The older woman had retorted and caused Mickey to get even angrier. It culminated when Mickey shoved the woman. Surprisingly, she retaliated with a strike to Mickey's cheek. Not one to let an old lady get the better of him, Mickey prepared to go back at her with a rock just when another man entered onto the scene.

Then time seemed to slow for Reagan. The new man had seen Mickey's bludgeoning attempt before he could even attempt it. Drawing a pistol out of his breast pocket, he had it aiming before anyone knew it. He called out to the woman, his wife apparently, who whirled around. Mickey held his rock up high but, before he could drop it, the man fired his gun once. Mickey never had a chance. The rock dropped and his body fell down beside it.

For the first few seconds Reagan was in shock. She watched as the man hurried over to his wife's side. He checked to make sure that she was alright before turning his attention towards Mickey. With a quick pronouncement, the man confirmed Reagan's worst fear. "He's dead, Jess."

_He's dead…he's dead…he's dead…_ The words seemed to ring in her head. And, before she could stop herself, she began to scream.

- - -

His preservation instincts kicked in before anything. He was still running on the higher testosterone levels that always accompanied a vindicated hit. And what other hit could be as satisfying as taking out a man who was threatening his wife? Jack raised his gun again, this time aiming it at the blonde girl who screaming.

Jess saw what her husband was preparing to do. She stepped in front of him so that the gun was pointing at her chest. "No," she said, firmly and clearly. "Jack, leave the girl alone."

When he saw that his wife had positioned herself between his pistol and his next intended victim, Jack shook his head. He lowered the gun. "But, Jess, we gotta stop her from screaming. She's gonna alert the bulls over her and they might not be the ones that got on the payroll," he answered. But he did put the gun away.

Jess shook her head, momentarily guilt passing over her lined face. If she hadn't raised the young man's bait, he would still be alive. She couldn't let Jack kill an innocent girl as well. "Let me take care of it then, alright?"

When her husband did not reply, she calmly approached the young girl. She saw the fear in her bright blue eyes and felt even more for her. _This child is just about Frankie's age_, she noted sadly. Pushing aside the sad thoughts, Jess forced the corners of her mouth upwards into a sympathetic smile. The girl seemed somewhat comforted at this; at the very least, she stopped her screaming.

Jess gestured for her to take her seat on the bench again. When she had, Jess sat down beside her and took her hand. The girl was shaking. "Don't worry, dear. We're not going to hurt you," she said soothingly in the voice she reserved for when Frankie felt sick when she was younger. It seemed to work slightly but not much. "Are you alright, Miss…"

"Reagan," she supplied, her voice trembling. Despite Jess' promise that she was safe, she was still scared and her voice told the older couple as much.

""Reagan," agreed Jess and she patted her on the hand. "We're not bad people. My husband just wanted to make sure that I didn't get hurt. That makes sense, doesn't it?"

Reagan thought about it for a moment before nodding. After spending much of her time the past few months around many of the Brooklyn Boys, she was becoming accustomed to violence being the first reaction in any sort of trying circumstance. So, in a way, the man's response to a threat placed on his wife, it made some sense.

But not much. Despite the kind words of the older woman, Mickey Finn was dead. And, as the last person to be with Mickey Finn, she was dead as well. Boss Conlon would make sure of that. She began to shake again.

Jess looked confused that the girl, who was beginning to calm down, started to grow more agitated. She looked helplessly over her shoulder. Jack caught her eye and shrugged before nodding his head toward the street. She understood his meaning at once; they couldn't risk being caught out in the open, especially with a dead body. Jess turned back to the girl. They couldn't stay behind, but she also couldn't just leave this girl here. So, without consulting Jack first, she made a decision.

Still holding tight onto Reagan's hand, she squeezed it. "Would you care to come home with me and my husband tonight?" she asked, and nearly kicked herself at mentioning Jack. Reagan's fear increased and she tried to pull her hand away. Jess stood up then and seemed to, silently, ask Jack for help. Jack understood and gestured to Mickey's fallen form. "We're not going to hurt you, Reagan. But we can't be found here and I doubt you want to be either."

Reagan forced herself to look at Mickey. The pitied glance lasted no more than a few seconds before she looked over at Jess. "I need to get out of here, Miss," she said, sounding less fearful but more anxious. "I'll go anywhere you want me to go."


	8. VII

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: Set during Prohibition, two rival gangs – one in Manhattan and one in Brooklyn – duke it out in a battle over the booze. Which side will win the right to provide all of New York with their moonshine? How far will the fight go? And what about Les?

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**_: I was bored and didn't feel like updating one of my longer stories, so, instead, I thought I would add onto this before turning my brain back to _Picture's Worth _and _Mythos_. I really do want to finish most of my older stories – or, at least, the stories where I know what the plan was. There are some times that I just write for the heck of it and there really is no plot ;) Anywho, I know no one reads this but, oh well. I like it._

_---_

Part VII

Huddling the distraught girl between them, the Kelly's began to usher her out of the wooded area. They had to get as far away from the dead body as was possible; they had precious few minutes before a squad car would pull up, investigating the gunshot. If either one of them was present – not too mention an innocent – it could spell big trouble for the Manhattan Mob. It was better not to take those chances.

Reagan did not say a single word as she followed the older couple on. Once they were out on the street, the man had let go of her arm. He used both his free hands to run his hands anxiously through his thick brown hair, unbelievably protected from all signs of grey despite his age. Despite her earlier attempts to get a good look at him, she was still blissfully unaware of who this man was. Every time she tried to get a good glance at his face, she met his eyes and she dropped her gaze downward. But, now that he seemed to be preoccupied, this could be her chance.

She dared a longer peek at his facial features; this was the closest to the man she had been and she wanted to get a good look at him. She had already seen his wife and, if it came down to it, would be able to identify her in an instant.

_Now to learn the face of Mickey's murderer_, she thought and slid her blue eyes over and looked at him quickly. He was a handsome man, with deep brown eyes that always looked like they were planning his next move. His skin was tan and she found herself curious as to how he managed that, living in the City; it looked like he spent some time out West. He wore an expensively tailored suit which was offset by the ratty red bandana he kept knotted around his neck.

It was when she spied the bandana that she understood just who she was dealing with. The names the pair had used when addressing each other – _Jack, Jess_ – coupled with his overbearing action and the strange attire… She was dealing with the Manhattan Mob leader, Jack 'Cowboy' Kelly.

She felt faint and wondered how far she could run before he withdrew his pistol and shot her as mercilessly as he had done to Mickey. And he didn't even know that Mick was a Brooklyn Boy at the time. What would he do if he found out she had ties to the rival gang?

Slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself, he moved her head slightly so that it was facing forward. She had no other choice. She had to run.

- - -

_This is not how I imagined this day would turn out_, Jack thought as he glanced over at the blonde girl again. She kept making eyes at him and it was beginning to make him a bit uncomfortable. _I'm old enough to be your father_, he smirked but kept that fact to himself. It made him feel desirable for girls to want him – as long as he kept to himself. It was a rule he lived by when it came to the dames: look but don't touch. His wife would kill him if he did. She wasn't afraid of him at all. Jess had proven them to him with her actions earlier than evening. And he wouldn't have her any other way.

He looked over the young girl so that his attention was on his wife. Her golden eyes were darting back and forth as they entered out onto the street. He was glad that she was being cautious now though he would have preferred that she had exercised caution before she went running off like that. They wouldn't be stuck with this girl if she had just listened to him in the first place. He, at least, knew it was a bad idea to leave the car and go into the woods.

Frustrated, Jack took his attention off of the two women he was accompanying, while patting the pockets of his suit. When he found what he was looking for, he pulled the cigarette out and went searching for a pack of matches now. He couldn't find them and, stubbornly, paused on the street side to look.

- - -

As she walked in between the two of them, Reagan waited for the opportune moment to make a break for it. She didn't know where exactly she was going to go; she couldn't go back to Brooklyn and face Boss Conlon nor could she stay in the company of the Kelly's.

She found her moment when the man stopped to light his cigarette. Out of the corner of her eye, as she continued to walk beside the man's wife, she saw him stick a cigarette in his mouth before pausing to find his matches. His eyes were, finally, off of his companions. If she hurried she could probably get far enough way and find help before he could draw his gun out.

She took a deep breathe and briskly exhaled, all of a sudden feeling much more nervous than she had before, when she came up with her escape plan. Without even meaning to, she glanced to the side and looked at the woman. Jess met her gaze and smiled warmly over at Reagan.

It was that smile – it just looked so sincere – that caused her to stay. She just couldn't run. Instead, she resigned herself to never mention Brooklyn to these Manhattanites. _Never_.

- - -

Jack, after getting his cigarette to light, took a deep drag and shook the hand that held the match. Once the flame had gone out, he tossed the spent wood to the ground before taking large strides. Within a few steps he had caught up to Jess and the girl.

It was when he had stopped for a moment that he noticed in which direction she was headed. Both the penthouse that they shared, as well as the new joint – _the Bakery_, he thought with a slight smirk – were in the opposite direction. _Where is she going_?

"Hey, Jess honey? Where are we heading to," he asked her, almost sideways. It was better for the girl if she didn't know exactly what she had gotten herself into. Though, after watching Jack gun her friend down, she probably had a pretty good idea as to what.

Jess, fortunately for Jack, seemed to catch his meaning. "I figured that it would be safest right now, while we work out exactly what happened back in that clearing, if we headed down to your office, _dear_," she added, her voice going a little flat on the last word. After the excitement of the evening she was remembering just how mad she had been at him.

He nodded and knew that she was right. It hadn't been that long since he had rescued her from the prison; Blink and the other boys were probably still waiting for him to return before heading down the speakeasy. He did feel slightly uneasy, though, with the way she finished her sentence. She had been relieved to see him when he followed her out of the car but now she seemed angry again. He would have to apologize – but that would have to, of course, wait until the girl was not around.

- - -

Reagan began to get even more nervous now. Not only had she lost her nerve earlier and remained in between the Kelly's but now she was being taken to the man's office. If that's even what the woman meant; for all she knew, that could have been a code phrase for "shoot the girl and hide her in a closet."

The very thought caused chills to run up her spine and, inwardly, she began to curse her mother. It's strange how – when you think you are facing near death – you begin blaming everyone else for your fate rather than yourself. And in her case, she felt the blame belonged to Sophie Malloy. If only her mother hadn't convinced her to get involved with mobsters. If only her mother hadn't pressured her to accept the invitation from Mickey Finn. If only…

Reagan did share in some of the blame, though. She knew she was _almost _as much at fault as her mother. She was the one who felt safe surrounding by Brookyln's biggest. She was the one who was slightly flattered by Mickey's continual advances. And she was the one who hadn't ran away from these two people who had shown their cold-heartedness by leaving Mickey to rot in the park.

She had just made the decision that she would, indeed, run away given the moment when Jack surged forward. He approached a side door of a, seemingly, abandoned building and performed an intricate knock upon it. Reagan was just about to suggest that the man was mad when a guff voice answered. "Who is it?"

Reagan could feel herself go pale. She had lost the opportunity for escape.

They had arrived at the office.


	9. VIII

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: _For every prohibition you create you also create an underground._ **SET IN 1921**. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary in this business. What happens when two girls dance up to the line and cross it while sticking their tongue out?

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _I've decided that Never Enough is my piece that I allow myself to crank a chapter out for when I'm taking a break from Diabo and A Virgin's Touch. Those two stories take a lot out of me because they are longer and more intricate than my other works, as well as being set on a deadline. This story is more fun and gets done whenever I feel like parodying old mob movies. Anywho, though the only person I know who reads this is Rae (_total luff to my Rae-zin_), I am offering roles to anyone who wants in this thing. I need friends for Frankie and Reagan, teenagers of the '20's period. You want in, I need names, ages, looks and personalities. And Rae, my dear, I'm bringing you back, don't worry :)_

---

PART VIII

"It's me," he replied, an impatient yet authoritative tone finding its way to his voice. Straightening his shirt as he waited for someone to answer the door, Jack motioned for the two girls to wait a step behind him. Jess stopped and held onto Reagan's arm; the two watched as he impatiently rapped on the door a second time. "What is going on in there? Let me in."

There was a noise that came from inside that sounded like a brief crash followed by another bang, almost as if a chair had overturned. Jess's green eyes opened wide but she didn't say a word; she knew better to speak aloud in a situation like this. Reagan seemed to sense the urgency and didn't need the quiet gesture that Jess did to keep her mouth shut. Jess then exchanged a glance with her husband; Jack, who had turned to the women when he heard the noise, nodded once and turned back to the door but not before he had withdrawn his pistol from his pocket.

Reagan winced when the gun was within her sight. For one brief second she thought that, maybe, the Kelly's had brought her back to this secluded area just to dispose of her in private. That notion was proven false when Jack cocked the gun and raised it so that it would be eye-level to any man who opened the door.

To everyone's surprise, when the door finally swung inward, Jack's aim was nearly a foot off. The girl who opened the door was more than a head shorter than the man who held the gun out. Her face was split into a grin that only widened when she saw the threatening stance Jack had assumed. Reagan couldn't believe the nerve the girl had.

She was short for her age – she appeared to be about sixteen – but the way she carried herself, even when staring down the barrel of a gun, showed she was a girl who feared nothing. Reagan felt almost significant at once; while the girl appeared to have an attitude that Mrs. Malloy would have beaten her for if she were her daughter, she was dressed in a stylish white frock that must have cost more than Reagan's entire wardrobe. The pristine dress was offset by her slightly tanned skin. Her long light brown curls were, scandalously, loose and falling past her shoulders; while the style for young girls was to bob their hair as a sign of the changing times, like Reagan's chin-length straight blonde locks, this girl disregarded the fashion and wore her hair long and wild. Reagan was envious and fought the urge to pull on her own ends.

Reagan could see the girl's large green eyes twinkle mischievously as Jack lowered his gun and held his arms out. "Precious," he said as the girl ran into his arms and let him wrap them around her. Reagan turned her head slightly to her left to see how Jess was affected by her husband embracing a _much _younger woman. She was surprised to see that she was rolling her eyes but smiling at the same time. "Jack, you are going to spoil her."

The girl pulled back from Jack when she heard Jess speak. She ran past him and, ignoring Reagan entirely, pulled on Jess' arm and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Ma, what happened? You sent me down to get Daddy after the coppers left and, well, he went running right after you. I stayed behind with Mr. Blink and Mr. Mush – he was kinda upset about what happened earlier, by the way, so Mr. Blink told him to go home to see Mrs. Mush, Daddy," she said, glancing back at Jack for a second before continuing to ramble at Jess, "So me and Mr. Blink spent the last two hours waiting for you to come back from the station. He wouldn't let me go home at all, so we waited and then Mr. Boots came back alone. He said you stormed out of the car, Ma, and that Daddy went looking for you. He wanted to let the fellas down here know before he went back out to look for Ma in the car – and who the hell is this chick?" The girl stopped in her fast-paced narration and gestured towards Reagan with a gloveless hand.

Jack shook his head at his daughter, speaking before Jess had a chance to. Reagan couldn't help but notice that neither seemed surprised at the fast pace in which the girl spoke nor the unladylike language that she used. _It must be normal for her_, Reagan thought. _And I wouldn't expect anything more from the daughter of a mobster_. "Precious, why did you answer the door? Where is Blink?" Jack asked.

At the mention of his name, a blonde-haired man with a black patch covering his left eye appeared at the door, rubbing his right shin. "Boss, I—"

Jack held up his hand, gesturing for the man to stop talking. He looked at his daughter pointedly. Though she was still holding onto her mother's arm, and was currently trying to catch Reagan's eye, somehow she understood that the silence indicated that her father wanted her to answer the question before he allowed the other man to talk.

The girl shrugged. "Mr. Blink didn't believe that you would have walked all the way back here of your own free will while we're in the middle of that war with Brooklyn. He thought that maybe you'd been forced or something and he wanted to ask some more questions of you. But, me? I wanted to let you in and find out what happened to Ma. So I kicked him."

Blink looked ashamed that the girl had gotten the better of him and bowed his head. Jack paused a second, processing what she had said. The awkward silence that followed illustrated to Reagan that, truly, Jack must be the head of the organization. While Jess, still on her left, just seemed eager to go inside, and the girl was still trying to figure out who Reagan was and why she was there, Blink's anxiety was almost palpable. Reagan was not surprised to see that, when Jack started to laugh, the man called Blink smiled widely in relief.

Jess, on the other hand, looked sternly at her husband. "Jack, you're not going to let your daughter kick your associates, are you?" The way she said that showed that, maybe, Reagan was wrong in her assessment. Maybe Jess was the one who was the head of the organization; if she was the one who scolded Jack, than it followed that she held more sway over the set-up. When Jack smiled sheepishly, after ceasing his laughter, and told 'Precious' to apologize to Blink, Reagan thought that she might be right.

Rather than snicker at her silent thoughts, Reagan lowered her gaze, her blue eyes staring downward. She was aware that, after the girl had asked about her, Jack did not tell his daughter how she came to be in their company. She could feel the curious gaze coming from the girl and chose to avoid making eye contact with her. It was only when Blink began to stammer that the girl only did what Jack would have done in the same situation, that she tore her eyes away from Reagan.

"Yeah," she agreed and left her mother's side to approach Blink. "You're right, Mr. Blink. I wanted to let my Daddy back into the office and you were in my way. So all I did was bring you down long enough to get past you and open the door." She seemed proud at the fact that she had kicked the man – at least twenty years her senior – just to open the door.

Jess shook her head and, for the first time since the shooting, left Reagan's side. "Frankie, you shouldn't do that. What if your father, with his loose trigger finger, shot you?" She placed her hand over her daughter's and led the girl toward the office door. Reagan was stunned to hear her talk so cavalierly about earlier, if that's even what the words 'loose trigger finger' referred to. It appeared that Jack was a little miffed at her words as well. She was so surprised that she didn't even think about running away now that she wasn't being guarded. She was so surprised that she didn't even notice that the girl was finally given a name.

"Come on, Jess, that's not fair," he said, putting his gun back in his pocket. Blink looked like he wanted to back up Jack's words but stopped when Jess turned his way. Rather than say anything, he shut his mouth and gestured for the women to enter the office before him.

"Yeah, Ma," added Frankie. "Daddy would never shoot anyone without reason, especially me." She shot her father an adored look before following her mother inside.

Now, as soon as Jess was out of her sight, Reagan remembered that these were the sort of people that she didn't want to be around. If there was ever a time that she should make a run for it, it was now. She took a step away from the area. _In one minute…_

Jack shrugged. After what had happened earlier, he really didn't want to get involved in another fight with his wife. That thought in mind, he looked up and spied the frightened-looking blonde girl that Jess insisted came back with them to the office. He sighed and took a step forward her. Reagan flinched. Ignoring that, Jack pointed towards the office. "Come on in, kid," he said and didn't move.

Reagan looked from the man to the open door and back again. He still had the gun. She nodded and began to head towards to office. She may be able to outrun the man but there was no way she'd be able to outrun a bullet, even if she tried.


	10. IX

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: _For every prohibition you create you also create an underground._ **SET IN 1921**. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary in this business. What happens when two girls dance up to the line and cross it while sticking their tongues out?

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _Thank you to the people who offered to be in this story. I should have those original characters begin to pop up in the next chapter. And, surprisingly, I know exactly where I'm going with this story. Think Romeo & Juliet mixed with any of the '30's Mob stories that you've ever heard. It should be interesting. The Romeo & Juliet thing (Manhattan vs. Brooklyn) was always my main goal – the introduction of Reagan Malloy is how we shall see the two boroughs intertwine. Woot. And I _will _still bring Les back. I haven't forgotten poor li'l Baby Jacobs._

---

PART IX

Reagan was surprised to see how nicely furnished the small cove was; the office building was so dirty and worn on the outside, she had never suspected that the inside would be carpeted with a mahogany desk sitting inside. The room was small. There was enough space for the large desk and three seats right up front; a narrow hallow connected to the office. Briefly, Reagan wondered where the hallway led. She could already see the back of the young girl – Jack's daughter – heading down it.

Jack had taken his seat behind the large desk. Jess was perched elegantly on one of the chairs facing her husband while Blink was hesitantly standing against the wall. The man's head was turned away and all Reagan could see was the satin patch that covered his left eye.

As she walked into the office, she had paused just within the doorway. Now that the girl was outside of the office, the adults were obviously preparing to discuss matters. _Probably me, _Reagan realized and the discomfort that she felt near on tripled. She couldn't walk any further at that moment. Her legs were frozen.

She lowered her eyes so that they were focused on the beige carpeting that covered the floor. The shag was thick and she was envious – her apartment at home had a rough floor. She almost wished she could take off her heeled shoes and walk around the rich carpeting in her stocking feet. She was so preoccupied with the lavishness of Jack Kelly's hide-a-way office, Reagan almost forgot that she was in the presence of one of the most powerful men in New York.

When the man cleared his throat, loudly, in order to get her attention, reality was thrust back upon her. Her head snapped up and she was sure that the fear she felt was written across her face.

Jack was staring straight ahead at her, his hands crossed in front of him. He opened his mouth to say something to her but before he could, the girl, already on the edge of her nerves after such a strange night, flinched. The man shook his head and turned in his chair. "Precious?"

His daughter poked her head out into the hallway. "Yes, Daddy?"

"Can you take your _mother's_ guest," Jack said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards Reagan; Jess rolled her eyes at his implication – just because it was smarter to bring the victim's girl back with them didn't necessarily make Reagan her _guest _– "into the backroom while the grownups talk?"

A look of pure annoyance crossed the girl's face but she kept her smile in place. She obviously resented being treated like a child but knew better to say anything at that moment. "Of course, Daddy," she answered and waved Reagan toward her. Reagan hesitated for a moment and 'Precious' laughed shortly. "Come on, girlie, I don't bite."

Reagan nodded and, stepping carefully, walked around Jack's wide desk, past the man's wife and associate, and padded down the small hallway until she had reached the girl. 'Precious' reached out and, with a tight grip, grabbed onto Reagan's bare arm; her yellow dress was sleeveless and, self-consciously she noticed, had a slight tear along the hem. _I'm going to have to have Mama fix it, _she started but quickly amended her thoughts to, _if I ever get back to Brooklyn and see Mama again_.

Almost under her breath, 'Precious' sighed, but it was sigh that was quickly covered up with a rather large smile. "Come on," she cooed, and the sarcasm was more overt this time, "the backroom is right this way."

Jack nodded approvingly towards his daughter while his wife was quietly accepting a cigarette from Blink. Just as 'Precious' and Frankie left the hallway and turned into the backroom, the girls could hear Jack's howl of outrage. "I told you not to smoke, Jess. And, Blink, what the hell are you doing?"

'Precious' shook her head and the phony smile she had worn to please her father disappeared. She rolled her eyes at her father's outburst and closed the wooden door that separated the backroom from the hallway. She flounced across the room and sat herself down in one of the cushy chairs that filled the space. There were two more chairs stored in the backroom as well as a bookshelf, an icebox, and a small table. Reagan's first impression of the backroom was that it was better furnished, with the exception of no carpet, than the front office.

Jack's daughter looked over Reagan with the same intensity that she had when they first met outside. Nodding as she did so, the girl seemed impressed with Reagan. "Take a seat," she said, pointing to one of the matching brown chairs, "and get comfortable."

Reagan was still on edge. She wasn't sure if the girl was saying this to be nice or just to lull her into a false sense of security. Briefly, she wished she had paid more attention to Mickey Finn when he boasted about his Mob connections; maybe she would have been more prepared for a situation like this if she had. Not having anything better to do, Reagan sat down in the chair as far away as possible from 'Precious'.

'Precious' stared at Reagan, daring her to speak. When the blonde girl kept quiet, 'Precious' reached under the padding of her chair and pulled out a freshly rolled cigarette and a box of matches. She placed the cigarette in her mouth, struck a match against the box and lit her smoke. She took a drag of smoke and blew it in the backroom, with a look of defiance on her face. Reagan couldn't blame her; she could still hear the fight between Jack and Jess Kelly going on in the office. "Wouldn't your father be upset if he saw you with that," Reagan squeaked out.

The girl smiled wryly before bringing the cigarette back to her lips. She breathed in the tobacco, waited a moment, and exhaled through her mouth. "Of course he would. My Dad is such a square."

Reagan nodded. She could relate. Her mother was as unhip as they came.

Keeping the cigarette rested between her fingers, 'Precious' kept her green eyes on Reagan. "So, what's your name?"

For a second, Reagan contemplated lying. But, before she told the girl a falsehood, she remembered that she had already confessed her true name to the girl's mother. "Reagan. Reagan Malloy."

Placing the cigarette back in her mouth, the Kelly girl leaned forward stuck out one of her manicured hands. Reagan tried not to be as jealous as before as she duplicated the gesture. After they had shook their hands, both girls sat back in their respective seats. "The name is Kelly. Frankie Kelly," 'Precious – er, Frankie – announced.

"Frankie?" Reagan echoed. She knew she had an odd name – her mother had named her after their ancestors from Ireland on her side: the Ó Ríagáin's or the descendants of Ríagáin. But Frankie?

Frankie seemed used to people questioning her name. "My grandfather's first name was Francis and Daddy promised him before he died that he would name his firstborn after him." She shrugged. "I guess they thought I'd be a boy or something. Besides, Ma had a rough time giving birth and they never had any other kids, so I got the name Francis. They used to call me Frannie," and here she pretended to gag momentarily before finishing her explanation, "but I couldn't handle that. So now I'm Frankie."

"Oh."

Frankie ashed her cigarette on the floor of the backroom and, with one of her decorated shoes, rubbed it into the floor until there was no sign of the burnt tobacco. "So, what brings you here? Ma doesn't usually bring girls home with her."

Reagan wondered how she was supposed to answer the question. "I sort of saw something I wasn't supposed to," she said finally.

Frankie quirked one of her thin eyebrows. "And you're still alive?" When Reagan flinched, Frankie knew that the girl had imagined she would have been dead already, too. "I mean, I'm sure you know what kind of people my parents are – they're good people, don't get me wrong, and I love them, but I'm surprised you're still here. Daddy doesn't like to leave loose ends."

Reagan lowered her head in order to whisper her response. "I'm surprised, too."

As tactless and assertive as Reagan assumed this girl to be, she was surprised when Frankie didn't ask any further questions along that vein; instead, she focused on learning more about her mother's 'save'. "So, where are you from?"

Now this question Reagan was prepared for; right after she agreed to accompany the Kelly's back to the office, she knew she would have to answer this question eventually. She also knew that she could never tell them that she was from Brooklyn. "Um, I'm…" She hesitated slightly. Her mind was drawing a huge blank at the moment.

Frankie began to laugh at Reagan's inability to answer such a simple question. "Come on, now, Reagan. It's not that hard of a question – well, as long as you ain't from Brooklyn or something, of course." Her laughter stopped almost at once, though. Reagan's pale skin had taken on almost a greenish twinge at Frankie's words. "Oh no, you _are _from Brooklyn."

Sadly, Reagan nodded.

Frankie waved her hand around before removing her cigarette again. "Well, that's alright. It's not like _all _of Brooklyn is bad. Or like you're somehow connected to those damn Brooklyn Boys, because _then _there might be a problem."

If possible, Reagan's face grew even greener. Frankie knew the truth almost at once.

And, quite like the reaction that Reagan expected, the Kelly girl dropped her cigarette to the ground and stood up from her seat. She used the heel of her shoe to put the end of the cigarette out and did not stop grinding away at the floor until all traced of the fiery embers were extinguished. Then she kicked the spent cigarette butt away from her chair and reached forward to Reagan. She grabbed the girls' arm again, her grip even stronger than before, and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, Reagan, we've got to go."

Reagan, reluctantly, let Frankie pull herself up. But, when Frankie, still holding onto Reagan, reached for the simple wooden door that led to Jack Kelly's, leader of the Manhattan Mob, front office, Reagan yanked her arm back. "Do you think we should interrupt your parents right now?" she asked hastily.

Frankie shook her head. "You don't understand, Reagan. I don't want to tell them about you."

Reagan was confused. "You don't? Then why?"

"Because I'm trying to get you out of here. We need to talk and this ain't the safest of places, you know," Frankie answered, reaching for Reagan's hand once more. This time Reagan, hoping that the trust she was placing into Frankie was well-founded, let her take it.


	11. X

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: _For every prohibition you create you also create an underground._ **SET IN 1921**. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary in this business. What happens when two girls dance up to the line and cross it while sticking their tongues out?

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _Yeah, when I said that the OC's would be in this chapter, I lied. I added a small detour so Reagan and Frankie won't meet up with their pals until the next chapter. Also, I was reading the reviews for the last chapter, and I just want to say a dew things. I know there hasn't been any male interests pop up yet, but he's coming – trust me :) As sad as it sounds, this story is maybe 30 percent done, if that. Also, Frankie isn't just helping Reagan because she's nice; she's actually quite manipulative when you get to know her (takes after her father). Trust me, she has enough to get out of befriending Reagan. Again, though, you'll have to wait until next chapter to see that. Luckily for you, since I know what's going to happen next chapter, that should be coming out soon._

---

PART X

Frankie opened the door but, once she had stepped outside of the room, immediately let go of Reagan's hand. With a flick of her wrist, she motioned for Reagan to stay behind. Reagan remained at the door but did not step out into the hallway.

Her parents were still discussing matters with Blink; at that exact moment, Frankie knew, they were probably deciding on what to do with the girl. She adopted a demure smile and cleared her throat, trying to get their attention without making it appear that she was trying to listen to their conversation. Her mother did not like when she snooped and there was no way that Frankie was going to let go of her ticket into Brooklyn just yet. "Daddy?" she called, softly, when none of the adults paid her any attention.

There was no way that Jack would not respond to his daughter's call. No sooner had she said his name, did he turn his head around to face her. He was wearing a tired smile that told Frankie that whatever the adults were talking about, he did not like it. "Yes, Precious?"

She swallowed. This didn't look good. If she didn't do this _just so_, Reagan could be in trouble. Or, worse, her father might just send Blink out with her – and that wouldn't do either. "Daddy? How much longer do I have to stay back here?" She tried to sound as bored as possible.

Jack sighed and turned briefly to face his wife and associate. Blink just shrugged and Jess whispered something to him. Jack nodded. "What did you have in mind, Precious?"

_He knows_. Sometimes she just didn't give her father enough credit. It was hard for her, especially with the affection she felt for him, to remember that he _was _Jack Kelly, head of the Manhattan Mob. There was no way he could have gotten there with no brains. She would have to be even smarter, though, for this to work. "Can't I go back home? We'll be alright if we hurry over and lock the door behind us," she added, while crossing her fingers behind her.

Jack narrowed his brown eyes at his daughter, creating wrinkles in his forehead. Frankie tried not to giggle at his expression. He would be even more aware that something was up if she did. "Who's 'we', Precious?"

_Damn._ She hadn't expected him to pick up on that. "Oh, me and the new girl, here. She hasn't really said much since you brought her here – I think the office is making her nervous. It might just be better if I took her home with me. Besides, safety in numbers, right, Daddy?"

Again, Jack turned around to exchange a glance with his wife. No doubt he was remembering the manner in which they came to acquire Reagan's company. But, when he turned in his chair, he was surprised to see his wife nodding. He was about to ask her what she was thinking – there was no way he was letting his little girl walk the streets of Manhattan without protection – when he saw Jess shake her head slightly before jerking her thumb to her right: Blink. Jack nodded. "Precious?"

"Yes, Daddy?"

He smiled. "You can go to the apartment, now, and wait for your mother and me. We have some more grown-up talk to do and you're right – it's not fair to make you girls wait here." Frankie began to thank her father but, before she could, Jack held up his hand. "I will have Mr. Blink here accompany you, though, just to make sure nothing happens." And by 'nothing happens' everyone knew what he was referring to. Brooklyn was still a major threat.

As if Frankie needed reminding.

Her mind already racing with ideas on how to shake her father's associate, Frankie smiled naturally. "Thank you, Daddy," she said before flicking her wrist again. Reagan took this to be a sign that she could finally leave the room.

- - -

The walk to the apartment building where the Kelly's lived was quiet and, for the most part, uneventful. The pair of girls walked awkwardly ahead, aware that Blink – who they had yet to figure out how to lose – was stalking a few paces behind them, his good eye on the lookout for anything strange, his hand wrapped around the pistol in his jacket pocket. The man was eager to prove himself to his boss; he had felt humiliated after Frankie knocked him down and disobeyed him. If he screwed this up and Jack's only daughter got in trouble while walking back to her home, his career – and, not to mention, _life _– would be over. He wasn't taking any chances.

So when, for the third time since their trek began, Frankie tried another ploy to get him to hurry back to the office he had just left, Blink was just as resolute that he would stay with the girls until they were safely inside the apartment. Sure, he would be very late for dinner and his date with Lorelai – it was quite rare that he could find someone to watch all of their four children – but he was going to do his job right. _Mush owes me next time_. His partner had gone home earlier that night after he had allowed Jess to get arrested; if there was one thing that upset Jack more than the chance that his daughter would get hurt, it was when something bad _really _happened to his wife.

"Mr. Blink, I think I left my purse back at the office. Can you run and fetch it for me?" Frankie asked, simpering. Blink shook his head. Did this girl think he was born yesterday? First she tried to say that she didn't need him, then she told him that she left a lit cigarette going in the office – _Yeah, like Jack Kelly's daughter smokes, _he thought, remembering the argument he had witnessed earlier between Jack and Jess – and now this. "Sorry, Frankie, no can do. You'll have to wait until tomorrow to get your purse," he said and smirked to himself when he saw her shoulders slump in defeat. Maybe now she would give up.

When he saw her straighten again and tap the blonde on her arm, Blink lost his smirk. Frankie wasn't done yet. He still walked behind them, waiting to hear what ploy the girl was going to try this time.

But, when someone spoke, it wasn't Frankie – it was the blonde. She stopped and turned to face Blink, determination written on her face but fear hidden in her eyes. Frankie obviously had no idea what the other girl was doing because she kept walking a few steps more before realizing that she was alone. Surprised, she stopped as well. "Excuse me," Reagan said, addressing Blink.

The man paused. Jack had told him what had happened in the park – how a young man, a man the blonde had been with that evening, had assaulted Jess and, subsequently, had been shot by Jack in defense. When the boss had turned his gun on the girl, Jess had stopped him and convinced him to bring her back with them. Back at the office, Blink had wanted to shake his head. Him and a couple of the other boys, though they never would freely admit it, felt that Jack listened to his wife too much sometimes. It wasn't good for his reputation, being under her thumb. "Yes?"

Reagan took a deep breath before her blue eyes slid to her right; she looked behind her and glanced Frankie waiting. She hadn't been able to succeed in getting their chaperone to leave – maybe Reagan could do it. _And I think I know just how to do it_. "There's something going on between Manhattan and Brooklyn, right?"

Blink looked harshly at Frankie, a look that said 'What have you been telling her?' Frankie just shrugged. She had no idea where Reagan was going with this. Blink nodded. "Yes," he said, almost drawing the one syllable out.

She took another deep breath. "Then I think you should go back to the office and tell your boss that something's about to go down."

Now Blink got apprehensive. He didn't like what Reagan was saying. It took all of his self-control not to take out his gun and get the girl to tall whatever she was trying to tell a bit faster. Jess, however, had said that the girl was not to be harmed – Jack had reluctantly agreed; the gun remained in his pocket. "What do you mean, kid?"

"Because the man he killed? The man I was with tonight? He was Mickey Finn, one of the Brooklyn Boys – Boss Conlon's boys." Her voice shook when she made her pronouncement and, almost at once, she felt that she should kick herself. _Why did I tell him that? They're going to come after me now._

That thought had clearly crossed his mind. The older man definitely looked rattled and Frankie, who was just as surprised as Blink was at Reagan's statement, could see that he was now torn between fulfilling his job in staying with the girl and running back to the office to tell Jack what he found out. _I can help him out with his decision._

Adopting a shocked expression, Frankie turned to Blink. "Mr. Blink, you need to go tell Daddy about this. If that Conlon bum finds out that one of his boys was killed over here, there could be a problem. Look," she added, pointing down the street, "the apartment, is only a block away. We'll run inside and lock the door behind us. You go back down to the office."

This while thing struck Blink as fishy but what could he do? News like this would redeem him in Jack's eyes. And Frankie was right – the apartment was only a block away. He nodded. "Just make sure you girls lock the door behind you. Especially now," he added. He didn't need to elaborate. The brief fire-fight between Manhattan and Brooklyn that followed Crutchy's death had been awful, but vindicated, because Brooklyn had started it. What would they do now when first shot fired was Jack's fault?

- - -

Once Blink was out of sights, hurrying down the street so that he would get back to the office as soon as possible, Frankie turned to look at Reagan. "You didn't tell me you were _with _a Brooklyn Boy," she accused, pointing a finger at Reagan.

Reagan gulped. _I knew I shouldn't have said anything. _It had been in the spur of the moment that decided to tell them about Mickey being a Brooklyn Boy. She could tell the Frankie was trying to, unsuccessfully, get Blink to leave them alone. She had assumed that Frankie was a friend now. If Frankie Kelly was trying to go against her father to save her, she was going to sacrifice something for her. She hadn't expected Frankie to look so upset. "It was our first date. He brought me to Manhattan to show how tough he was and, later, he tried to prove it by yelling at your mother. Of course, I didn't know it was your mother – I didn't know you – but when she hit Mickey, he wanted to get her back. Then your dad came alone and shot Mickey in the chest. I didn't know what to do, so I screamed and I could tell he was going to shoot me next but your mom – have I said how much I like her? – well, she told him not too and that's how I came to be at the office where I met you…" Reagan revealed, rambling as she did so.

All Frankie could say, with a small smile, was: "Ma hit a Brooklyn Boy?"


	12. XI

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: _For every prohibition you create you also create an underground._ **SET IN 1921**. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary. But money and infamy wasn't enough for them. It never is.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _Do you know how hard it is to rewrite a chapter? I had half of this chapter done (with Frankie and Reagan continuing on to see their friends…) and then, last week, my computer crashed. I lost _all _my files – including outlines and chapters to stories I hadn't posted yet. I finally got a new laptop, but I was hesitant to work on this, Diabo or AVT. But, life goes on and I figured, I might as well get another chapter out. I do want to finish at least 2 of these 3 stories by the end of summer (Diabo is too confusing right now to even contemplate an August done date). So, rather than face a rewrite, I did this chapter first. Next chapter will have the F/R chapter and our first escapade in Brooklyn._

---

PART XI

There was a nagging suspicion in the back of Hayden "Blink" Moore's mind as he left the two girls alone. He knew that the Kelly's apartment was just one block over from where he had left the pair but he couldn't help but think that maybe he was playing right into Frankie Kelly's hands. He had watched Jack's daughter grow up and he had never seen such a conniving and manipulative little girl before; he hadn't had that much trouble from any of his four children. And the worst part of it all was that her father insisted on calling her 'Precious.' The great Cowboy was oblivious to his own daughter's actions. _Sheesh, Cowboy doesn't even listen to Jess on that one, _he thought as he went. He knew Jess grew frustrated with Frankie sometimes; she liked to confide in Lorelai over a cup of coffee when the fellows had business to attend to and Lorelai, in turn, couldn't keep the secrets from her husband.

But it hadn't been Frankie who told him about Jack's latest victim being a Brooklyn Boy - it had been the blonde girl that the boss and his wife brought back with them. _Reagan, I think they said her name was_. _Why would she lie? _The girl had information that correlated with - and even expanded on - the story that Jack had told him back at the office. But Jack hadn't known that the boy was Mickey Finn, one of Spot Conlon's boys. What would he do when he found out? Or, worse yet, what would Spot Conlon do?

It was dark, and the streets were much quieter than he was used to as he made his way back to the office. He paid no mind to the passing automobiles until one of them slowed and pulled up to the side of the street, just in front of him. His first instinct was to pause. His hand on his pistol, he waited for some sign of who it was inside. In his business, you could never be sure if someone was a friend or foe.

Surprisingly, when the driver side door opened, a slender pair of stocking-covered legs emerged. _A woman? _He knew not to let himself off guard just because a woman had stopped before him. He wouldn't put it past Spot Conlon to hire an attractive woman to start bumping off Jack Kelly's associates. _And besides_, he reminded himself, _I'm happily married. _

When a torso and, finally, a head followed the legs, Blink finally let himself relax. He recognized the sharp profile of the blonde haired woman in front of him: Rae Kelly-Phillips, the widow of his old pal, Snitch. As surprising as it was to see a woman driving herself around, it was even more surprising to see Rae up and about. After Snitch was shot and killed last spring, Rae and her two children seemed to disappear. She wanted out of the business. Rumor had it that she had left Manhattan in favor of a safer place – no one knew where it was that she had went. All they knew was that she accepted the money Jack gave her for Snitch's service and moved her family out of the Manhattan apartment.

She looked just the same as before, only now in more expensive clothes. Wherever she had gone, she had changed – and, from his point of view, for the better. The Rae he had known preferred the simple cut of a plain dress; this Rae had her long fair hair styled and was wearing a short, sleek black dress. _At least she's still grieving poor Snitch._

She had obviously pulled over with the intent to say 'Hello' for, as soon as she shut the door, she turned on her heel and greeted him. "Hayden! It's been so long."

He bowed his head slightly in respect; any woman that called him by his Christian name reminded him of his mother. "Rae, it's good to see you."

She laughed. "You look good, Blink," she said, reverting back to his nickname. She had forgotten how much he hated to be called by his real name. Jason had been the same way – even now they all still referred to him as Snitch. "I almost didn't recognize you," she added as she reached a hand forward and brushed his shoulder. "You were hurrying along so fast down the street that I wasn't even sure it _was _you."

"Business," he said simply before looking up at meeting her grey eyes. "You know how it is."

"Business? Are you telling me that you're still doing naughty things," she said coyly. She left the rest of her statement go unsaid; Rae, understandably, had a very poor view on the Manhattan Mob ever since Snitch had been shot on a routine rum run.

Blink nodded apologetically. "Something like that." He shrugged. "I just had to go back and talk to Cowboy."

A grimace crossed the woman's lovely face but was gone as quickly as it came. "Cowboy," she said, almost as if the name left a bad taste in her mouth. "He still running the Mob?"

"Yeah, but who knows for how long," Blink said, for the most part, under his breath. If Spot Conlon heard about the death of one of his boys by Jack Kelly's gun, God only knows what he would do.

Rae, Blink should have remembered, was always quick on the uptake. She heard his mutterings and caught onto them. "What's that mean, Blink? Things going alright in the Mob?" Sorrow filled her grey eyes and her lips turned downward. "No one else has … died? Not since Crutchy, right?"

Blink shook his head and he almost cursed himself for saying anything at all. But, then he thought about whom exactly it was that he was talking to. Rae had been part of their group for as long as he could remember; she sold newspapers by his side when they were kids. She married one of his best friends and went out frequently with him and Lorelai before all of their kids came along. She was as involved with the Mob as her husband was; she only left it all behind her after his death last spring; said she was doing it for her kids and he understood that. He could talk to her. "No one else has died, Rae. Well, at least, none of our boys."

"A Brooklyn Boy?" she asked, innocently.

Blink nodded. "Yeah, some kid called Finn. He tried to off Jess and, well, you know Jack. He walked in just as this kid tried to hit her with a rock and _bang_."

She flinched and, even though Blink only had one good eye, he saw it. _Of course she's upset. That's how old Snitch got it – right in the gut with a Brooklyn Boys' pistol._ Then Rae shook her head, her fair hair swaying before settling back in its set. "So, is Jess alright?"

Blink nodded again. "Yeah, Jess is fine. Cowboy got the kid before he could drop the rock." He paused for a minute before gesturing over his shoulder. "You know, Rae, it's been great seeing you again and all but I really got to head over to Jack's office. He's expecting me back."

Rae grinned. "Of course, Blink. Listen," she began before pointing to her car, "I took up your time. Let me give you a ride over to Cowboy's office. I'd love to see Jess again."

He thought about it for a moment. One of Jack's main rules was never to bring an outsider to his office. What good would it do if anyone – his enemies included – could find him? _But_, as he reminded himself, _Cowboy broke his own rule by bringing that blonde girl back to the office. And, besides, Rae isn't an outsider. _Blink nodded. "Of course, Rae." And, with that, he followed her over to her car.

- - -

The ride over to the office was quick; it was only about a mile or so away from the Kelly's apartment. Blink tried to make small talk with Rae as she drove but stopped almost immediately. He could see that Rae was paying close attention to the road and, after she almost bumped into a man who was trying to cross the street, Blink figured it was the smartest course of action to keep quiet.

He didn't say anything else to her unless it was a direction towards the abandoned building where Jack reigned. Cowboy had the habit of changing his office's location ever few months, just in case. Since Rae had left the city, Jack must have switched buildings three or four times; Rae had no idea where the newest spot was.

Blink leaned forward and pointed. "See that side street right there? Make a sharp left." Rae did as she was instructed and found herself between two old buildings. "That's it," Blink continued, pointing to his left. If he hadn't pointed the door out, Rae wasn't sure she would have ever given the dark grey rectangle another thought. There was nothing to indicate that it was, in fact, a door: no knob, no visible peephole, no handle. But, if Blink said this was the door, then this was the door.

He got out of the car and began to walk around to her side. He obviously intended to open the car door for her. Once she could see him out of the side window, Rae held up her hand. "That's alright, Blink. I forgot, I have some urgent business in town. I won't be able to stop inside, after all."

He looked puzzled for just a second before nodding. "Of course, Rae," he answered. "I'll send Jack and Jess your love."

"Thanks, Hayden," she said personably. She waited until he had walked back around her car and approached the door. He seemed to perform an intricate sort of knock before turning back and waving at her. She took that as her signal to go. She waved back before putting her small car in reverse. She was out of the alleyway before anyone opened the door.

Once she was back on the main road, Rae pulled the car over and idled as she went over everything that Blink had said to her. _Finn is dead. One of the boys is down. Spot isn't going to be too happy about that. He really counted on the Finn brothers – I wonder which one it was: Mickey or Matthew._ She sighed and put her foot back to the pedal. She had visited Manhattan – like she did every month – to pay her respects to her dead husband's remains before heading back to her new home in Brooklyn. She had purposely avoided seeing all her old friends from her old life since Jason's funeral. How could she explain that she had left the protection of the Manhattan Mob for a new life in Brooklyn? This was the first time she had run into any of them and taken the opportunity to say 'hello'. And what happened? Hayden had horrible news. _If only he knew how horrible it was…_

She sighed a second time before beginning her journey back to Brooklyn. Maybe Spot would take it better if the news came from her.


	13. XII

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: _For every prohibition you create you also create an underground._ **SET IN 1921**. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary. But money and infamy wasn't enough for them. It never is.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _Well, here's chapter 13, lucky number 13. And look who popped again. Yay, Les. You see, I didn't forget about him :) And, yay for the introduction of our first original character. Charli O'Rourke is the property of Betchya_ _O'Connor. Other OC's will be entering soon._

---

Part XII

Les was feeling a bit nervous as the squad car made its way towards the Park. One of the cops, out on his beat, had stumbled across a dead boy just on the outside of the wooded area. Though the district attorney was wary of letting the lieutenant check out the body before the coroner came for it, the police chief had remarked that it was good to let the rookie sergeant work his first murder scene. So, without another word, Rick Sherman and the new sergeant, Les Jacobs, were on their way.

He wasn't sure why the idea of seeing a dead body unnerved him so. Back out West, Les had dealt with more than his fair share of murder victims. Sighing, he just stared ahead as Rick drove. The older man was blathering on about the woman the pair had brought into the station earlier that afternoon and Les kept trying to drown out his nasally voice. He didn't want to remember that either. _Jack Kelly is a mob leader_, he thought and shook his head slightly. He just couldn't believe it. _Cowboy, a crook._ Well, that part was not that hard to believe – but a mob leader?

"And then Kelly his self showed up and—"

Hearing Jack's name at the exact moment that the former Cowboy flashed through his mind seemed to bring Les out of his reverie. His head snapped to his left. "What was that, Sherman? Huh?"

Sherman did not miss a beat. While he kept his eyes on the road in front of him, Les could see, from the man's sharp profile, he was smirking. "So nice of you to join in on the conversation, kid."

He ignored the sarcasm. "Did you just mention Kelly?"

"Yeah. That ass had the nerve to come down and pick up his broad, his self. Walked right into the station like he owned the joint and basically did a number on the DA. She was let out on a damn technicality." Then the old man snorted through his nose and Les knew he was not happy in which the case had been handled.

Les couldn't help but have mixed feelings at that news. He was glad, though he would never admit it to his partner, that Jess Kelly had gotten out of the jail cell that Rick had thrown her in. However, why couldn't he have been at the station when Jack came in? Despite hearing all these negative things about Jack Kelly, Les couldn't help but harbor his old hero worship toward the man; he wanted to see Jack again.

Stillness permeated the air and it became awkward in the squad car. Rick was obviously waiting for Les to comment on his opinion; Les had nothing he wanted to say.

The silence was broken a few minutes later when the pair arrived at the address given to them by the Chief of Police. Rick maneuvered the car so that it was parked at the side of the road, at the entrance to the wooded area.

Les looked confused. He didn't see any other police officers or a crowd that informed him that a corpse was nearby. Back out West, there was always an uproar when a man was found dead; the police often had to fight their way through a crowd of ruffians to get to the victim.

Rick, using the light of a streetlamp, made out the expression on Les' weathered face. He chuckled; he really did enjoy having the upper hand on any of the younger officers. Usually wary of a partner that was almost half his age, he had taken a liking to this kid from Santa Fe. However, that didn't mean he wasn't going to tease him when he got the chance. "What's the matter, Jacobs?"

Les shrugged slightly. "I was just trying to find the body. You don't think that the coroner already came for the boy, do you?"

"Didn't you hear McHenry's report? The body was found inside the woods, not on the side of the street."

"Oh." _I should have known that. I _did _know that, I heard the report. _He sighed almost inaudibly. _This whole Jack Kelly-Manhattan Mob thing has gotten me more rattled that I thought._

"Oh," mimicked Rick. He smiled but it was short-lived; it's no fun to tease a rookie officer if he's not going to rise to the bait. He opened his door and gestured for Les to do the same. "Come on, kid. Let's go take care of that dead body."

--

Faced with Frankie's expression, a mixture of suspicion, surprise and awe, Reagan nodded shyly. "Well, I can't say he didn't have it coming," she said finally, almost cautiously. Frankie had seemed so upset that she had not known the entire story. Now, however, that Reagan had told her the truth, she seemed almost amazed that her mother would strike a member of the Brooklyn Boys.

But was it amazement? Or sadness? The emotions that Frankie displayed were almost conflicting and Reagan could see that the brunette struggled to keep herself in control.

"So, Mickey Finn is dead," Frankie said finally and Reagan nodded a few times. "I never liked that brute, I always thought that Johnny could do much better than have friends like the Finn brothers, but I didn't want to see him dead."

Reagan, understandably, was quite confused at Frankie's confession but Frankie paid no mind. She patted the back of her curls absently; there was no longer a trace of a smile on her pale face. "It's one thing for the stiff to be a Brooklyn Boy but to be one of the Finn's? This is getting more complicated than I thought." She paused and, as her green eyes met Reagan's nervous blue ones, she remembered what her intent had been before Reagan's revelation. She reached out and took Reagan's arm. "Come on."

Frankie began to lead Reagan down the street. After they had gone three blocks in an awkward silence, Reagan felt the need to say something. "Umm…Frankie? Didn't you tell that man that we were going to your apartment? Cause I think we might have missed it if it was only a block away."

The Kelly girl looked confused for a second before waving her hand around aimlessly. "I just told Mr. Blink that we were going to the apartment so that he'd leave us alone. We're going to see a friend of mine."

Reagan swallowed. "Is this a person going to be a friend to me, too?" she asked in a small voice. At this point in the evening's discoveries, Reagan did not want to leave the girl alone; she knew the Finn brothers, for God's sake, and Reagan wanted to know how. But a friend? That did not sound too promising.

The seriousness that had seemed to overtake Frankie at the mention of Mickey Finn being the murdered boy almost evaporated. She grinned and Reagan felt childish for even asking her question. "Don't worry. Charli O'Rourke is a friend of anyone as long as they got dough. You'll be fine."

Reagan nodded and let herself be led forward. She really didn't have any other choice.

--

The home of Charli O'Rourke was not that much father away, as Reagan found out. It was, however, in a whole different neighborhood than the one where the Kelly apartment was. There seemed to be almost a thin, invisible line that separated parts of Manhattan; with one cross of a single street, the large, expensive-looking buildings were behind the pair of girls. Overcrowded tenements lay ahead.

Once that line was crossed, it was Reagan who was holding tightly onto Frankie. Frankie had let go of Reagan's arm a few blocks back but, once Reagan saw the area in which they were delving into, she grabbed at the other girl. She was not used to slumming it.

Frankie, on the other hand, seemed perfectly comfortable walking through these streets in the darkness. There were only a handful of street lamps illuminating the way and Reagan flinched every time they approached one. She did not like the light shining down on them; all it did was to point out the position of two nicely dressed young girls. She couldn't help but think that they were asking for trouble.

But, surprisingly, none of the bums that were resting along the gutter, illegal moonshine clasped tightly in brown paper bags, paid them any attention. Frankie, likewise, kept her face straight, her eyes focused as she sought out a particular tenement. Not for the first time, Reagan wondered how often she had been down this way.

It was the building at the end of a block, almost hidden in the darkness. It was placed directly between a set of lamps and the light from neither could touch it. Whatever their purpose for finding this place, it seemed to suit it perfectly.

Frankie led the way with Reagan following close behind. Despite the lateness of the evening, the front door to the building was still wide open. No one was present in the front but Frankie did not seem surprised. She just continued going on.

There was a flight of stairs just inside the building. It was hard for the girls to navigate their way over there; the lobby was illuminated by a single oil lamp whose light did not extend that far. But, luckily, Frankie knew the way even through darkness.

There was another lamp at the top of the first flight of stairs and every flight that followed. Reagan was even more frightened, walking around this seemingly vacant building, than she was when they were walking about on the street. _At least the street had electric lights, _she though, trying to huddle as close to Frankie as possible. She wasn't used to any place that still trusted lamps rather than the new invention of electric light.

The girls only had to go up three flights of stairs before Frankie led Reagan out of the stairwell and onto a floor. There was no light once they stepped out onto the floor and Reagan felt herself shaking slightly in the pitch darkness. Frankie whispered 'Shh' to her once before taking deliberate steps and counting out each step under her breath. "One…two…three…four…five…six," she said and paused. She felt around in the dark until her slender hand found the doorknob. Rather than turn the knob, Frankie formed her hand into a fist and knocked twice on the door.

As she waited for the door to be answered, she strained her eyes to make out Reagan in the darkness. She thought she saw the pale dress and fair hair of the girl, waiting near the edge of the hallway. "Reagan," she hissed.

Reagan jumped – she _was_ still waiting back at the end of the hallway – and hurried forward. Her eyes still had not adapted to the darkness and, in her nervous state, she rushed forward until she had collided with Frankie. The pair of girls ended up in a heap at the foot of the door.

And that's when the door decided to open. From her place on the floor, Reagan could see that a girl, around their age, had opened the door. The light from her apartment flooded out into the hallway and showed the girls, lying down on the dirty floor. The girl just looked them both over before grinning widely. "Frankie," she said, and Reagan knew this was the Charli they had come to see, "I've seen you brought me some company."

Not for the first time that night, Reagan wished she could got disappear. Frankie, on the other hand, just laughed. For the first time that night, she thought things might just be going her way.


	14. XIII

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: _For every prohibition you create you also create an underground._ **SET IN 1921**. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary. But money and infamy wasn't enough for them. It never is.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work. Charli O'Rourke is the property of Betchya O'Connor. Whistler is the property of Garen Ruy Maxwell. Rae Kelly-Phillips is the property of Rae Kelly.

**Author's Note**: _This is one of the shortest chapters I've done for this story but I have two reasons: one, I'm going on vacation in about half an hour and I really wanted to have this updated before I go. I'm only gone for the weekend (I'm trading NJ in for Washington D.C.; I'm going to the Smithsonian!) and I'll be back to update Diabo. But I haven't worked on this in a bit, so I figured this would be my parting gesture until Monday. Look at that, a whole weekend without any updates from me. How will you stand it? And two, I need to bring Johnny and Frankie together. If I did that in this chapter, I would never finish. And the chapter would be the lengths of two. So, I figure, this is as good a point as any to wait. Woot._

---

Part XIII

"I'm bored."

The two other boys looked up intently to see if the third would elaborate on his state. When all he did was sigh heavily and lean further back in his seat – while tapping (bitten) fingernails against the arm rest – they went back to their card game.

It was nothing new for them to be bored. They were part of the Brooklyn Boys gang but only just. The first boy was only seventeen years old; his companions appeared to be older than him – and they were; they were considered his bodyguards while also being his only friends – but not by much.

The boy in the chair sighed again. He was a thin boy, but just the perfect height so that he did not look too lanky or awkward. His dirty blonde hair – there was no other word to describe that particular shade; it had the appearance of a shaggy mop of hair that had not been washed in a week – was longish in the front, with one particular lock that fell forward into his crystal blue-green eyes. His facial features were almost perfectly sculpted within his tan skin; the only flaw was a slight scar, an inch wide, under his left eye.

One of his two companions – a plan looking boy, much taller and broader than the first, with short dark hair and small dark and beady eyes that almost were sunken in his face – shot him a furtive look. It was never good when the Boss' son was bored. Johnny Conlon did bad things when he was bored. _Like sneaking around with that broad from Manhattan. _

The third boy just shook his head as he threw down his hand of cards. He was a skinny boy, much like Johnny, but a few inches shorter. He had long red hair – so long he wore it in a small ponytail – and eyes that were a mix of both greens and greys. He was smiling lazily as his cards were revealed – a pair of two's and nothing more; the other boy's hand of three's and eight's beat his – and stretched his hands behind him when he lost. "I'm bored, too. Where's your brother today, Matt?"

Matthew Finn scraped up the four dollar pot; he did not answer Whistler's question until the money was safely within his reach and not the redheaded boy's. "Mickey? Don't you remember, Whis? He's been talking about his date with that blonde dame for weeks."

"Oh, yeah. What's her name? Rachel? Rita?"

"Reagan," supplied Johnny as he leaned forward in his seat. He was getting antsy in his boredom and could not sit still for long. While the other two boys continued in their conversation, he got up and walked toward the back door.

Whistler snapped his fingers. "Reagan, that's right. Skinny broad, nice set of tits. I remember her." He paused and looked at Matthew. "How did your brother get a date with someone who looked like that?"

Matthew shrugged. "Let's just say that Mickey never took 'no' for an answer."

Both boys started to laugh then, imagining just how Mickey's date was going at that moment. They had no way to know that, within a few short hours, Mickey Finn would be shot.

Johnny had opened the door and was peering outside. It was late in the afternoon; the Sun would not be up for much longer. And then, once the sun set for the evening, his father would return from his daily activities – Liam Conlon, during the day, served as a wealthy businessman; not many of his clients knew that, once night had draped over the city of Brooklyn, he became 'Boss' Spot Conlon – first stopping at the house to look in on Rae and the younger kids, then checking in with him and the boys before heading out. _With Rae_, he added mentally.

It is not like he did not like Rae Kelly-Phillips or her children. In fact, he thought the woman complemented his father perfectly; as for her children, Edwina (at fifteen) was a handful but Alden (ten) thought the world of Johnny – so he could not be all bad.

Rae had dated Spot steadily when they were younger and one argument had sent her over to Manhattan. (He did not find that hard to believe; he had been witness to some of the fiercest fights known to man since Rae started visiting his father, shortly after her husband died.) She remained there, married a Manhattan man, had two children – eventually became involved with the Manhattan Mob.

Spot Conlon was hit hard when Rae left him at the turn of the century. They were only kids then, not much older than Johnny is now, and his pride kept him from going after her. In time, he put her behind him and married another girl, Teresa Burke – Johnny's mother. Tess had died when Johnny was four; an infection that was not caught until it was too late.

Rae's husband, a man called 'Snitch', died too; he was shot and killed during a routine rum run. Distraught, Rae came to take out her anger and hurt on Spot. Why had one of his men shot at Snitch? She never learned that his murder was accidental, or that Spot ordered the boy who killed him, with his loose trigger finger, to be tossed in the East River. What she did learn was that there were still mutual feelings between them both.

Rae Kelly-Phillips had been living in the Conlon home ever since; she had been pregnant when she returned to Brooklyn, bringing her two children with her. When little Mackenzie was born six months after Snitch's death, Spot did the noble thing and adopted the child as his own. It was kept quiet though; the only ones who knew were Johnny (plus Whistler and the Finn brothers) and Spot's own right hand man, Scotch O'Reilly. Everyone else just called her Rae Conlon.

Johnny took another glance outside. It was not too late. He had more than enough time to take a ride over to Manhattan. And, if he was in Manhattan, he figured, he would not be bored.

He turned around to face the two boys at the poker table. There was a broad grin across his long face and, at once, Whistler and Matthew knew what he was thinking.

"Hey, Johnny, I don't think that's a good idea. I mean, Mick already took the night off. Is your Dad going to like the idea of us being gone, too?"

Johnny winced. He hated it when Whistler referred to his Dad as 'his Dad' – _why can't he call him Boss Conlon like everyone else?_ It irked him to no end to be known only as Boss Conlon's boy; there were so many expectations he was forced to (try to) live up to. He also hated to know what would happened if his father ever found out about _her_. Brooklyn Boys do not date Manhattan girls.

"First off, Whis, it's only gonna be me and you that blow this joint. Matt, you're gonna stay behind and tell the Boss that me and Whistler are out, checking up on a lead."

"A lead?" repeated Matthew, a bit uncertainly.

"Yeah. Make it sound believable. Can you do that?"

He nodded. "Yeah, Johnny."

"Good." He turned to Whistler. "Ready?"

Whistler knew, deep down, this could not be a good idea. Johnny Conlon did bad things when he was bored. But, his desire to have fun won out over the bit of common sense he had left. "Yeah, but I wanna drive."

--

The girl took a step over and, with the light shining behind her, Reagan got a better look at Charli O'Rourke's face. She had dark hair, most likely a dark brown shade – though, due to the light, it might be darker – that was separated and tied back in a set of braids, one resting on each shoulder. Her skin was very tan, much darker than Reagan and Frankie's pale flesh.

It was her eyes, however, that caused Reagan to stare. She wasn't sure if it was a trick of the lighting, or not, but it seemed like her eyes did not match: the left one was almost an icy blue colored while the right one was deep green.

Charli knew that Reagan was staring and smirked. She waited patiently for Frankie to disentangle herself from Reagan – she was, by now, far too used to Charli's strange eyes to stare at them – before she extended her hand.

Frankie accepted it and allowed herself to be pulled into a tight embrace. Reagan remained on the floor.

When Charli finally let go of Frankie, she gestured down to the floor. "Hey, Frankie? Who's this?"

Something about the manner in which Charli spoke – she was loud and gruff – made Reagan feel like she was not really there. Almost as if this girl was talking through her rather than talking about her. While the girl's mismatched eyes were roaming over her, trying to figure out who she was, Reagan tried to climb to her feet.

Her dress, she noticed in the dim lighting, was in even worse shape than before. While she only noticed a slight tear at the hem earlier, now it was wrinkled and stained following her brush with the sticky and dirty floor. _Mama's really going to kill me now_. _Though, at the rate I'm going tonight, she's going to have to take a number. _Even this Charli O'Rourke person was looking her over with a distasteful look.

Frankie placed a protective hand on Reagan's bare arm. "This is my pal, Reagan. She's from Brooklyn."

Charli's eyes (both of them) lit up at the mention of the borough. "Ooh, do I have a forbidden friendship to help keep in tact as well as a forbidden romance?"

Frankie laughed and, after a prod from her, Reagan followed, although somewhat half-heartedly. She didn't know what was so funny.


	15. XIV

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: _For every prohibition you create you also create an underground._ **SET IN 1921**. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary. But money and infamy wasn't enough for them. It never is.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work. Charli O'Rourke is the property of Betchya O'Connor. Whistler is the property of Garen Ruy Maxwell.

**Author's Note**: _Goodness, I have not touched this story in almost two weeks, wow. Then again, considering that 2.5+ years gap in updating time, a couple extra days isn't too bad. Actually, next week marks the four year anniversary of this story. I'm so proud… Anywho, here's the next bit. It's coming along nicely, I think. I want to thank all the people who have continued to read this story and review this. It makes sitting down and working on these stories very appreciated. I just thought I'd take the time to express that. And now, part fourteen._

---

Part XIV

The three of them just stood in the hallway of the old, dilapidated building before Charli remembered her duty as hostess and invited both Frankie and Reagan in. Frankie smiled and ducked her head as she entered into the room; Reagan waited for a moment but, after realizing that if she did not go into the room she would be left alone in the dark hallway, she followed after Frankie. Charli nodded and backed into the room, closing the door behind her.

The room that the girls found themselves in was quite the contrast from the dingy outer hall. The walls were a clean white color, with a yellow sheen due to the various oil lamps that were stationed all over. Reagan was glad that she could finally see her hands in front of her; it had seemed that she had been submerged into darkness for much longer than she had been.

While Frankie and Reagan stood in the middle of the room – standing atop a nice shag rug, Reagan noticed – Charli took a seat on the floral print daybed. She gestured to two of the matching four seats in the room. "Take a seat. Please."

Frankie did as Charli said; Reagan followed her companion's lead and sat in the seat that was in between Frankie's chair and the window.

"Now," Charli began, and Reagan could see from the oil lamp at her feet that the girl's eyes truly were two distinct colors, "I think some _real _introductions are in order."

The girl, about the age of both Reagan and Frankie – sixteen – crossed her legs and looked at Reagan again. The feel of those oddly mismatched eyes made her uncomfortable; she turned to Frankie for help.

Frankie, on the other hand, seemed to take Charli's words as a cue. She cleared her throat. "Match," she said and Reagan cocked her head in confusion – _who the hell is Match? _"I'd like you to meet Reagan Malloy. Like I said, she's from Brooklyn. I met her today and I thought it be best if I brought her to you." The girl grinned and nodded. She seemed to expect such an answer.

Frankie turned to Reagan. "Reagan, this girl here is Charli O'Rourke but we all call her Match. For obvious reasons," she added and Reagan knew she was referring to the girl's strange eyes. _So that's Match... _"Match is a pal of mine. She's kind of like the middle man between me and Brooklyn."

Reagan shook her head. Before she could stop herself, she was blurting out a question, "What do you need a middle man between you and Brooklyn for, Frankie? Your father, from what I hear, is in the middle of a war with Brooklyn. Ain't it dangerous, then, if you deal with Brooklyn?"

Despite the dim lighting – not even the large amount of oil lamps Match had burning illuminated the whole room entirely – all could see that there was a red tint to Frankie's freckled cheeks. The girl was blushing.

Match answered Reagan's question with one of her own. "Not so fast, toots. Before you start asking things of my pal, Frankie, I want to know what you're doing here? Hmm?" Match, while still sitting on the soft padding of the sofa, leaned forward and glared at Reagan.

The blonde girl was taken aback at the accusatory tone Match had adopted. She could see that the girl was very protective of Frankie and she gulped. She really did not want to relive the night's events again.

However, under the intensity of Match's stare, Reagan knew that she had to answer to Match's inquiry before anything else would be said. She sighed but, just as Reagan was about to explain just how she was involved in this whole mess, a knock was heard. Somebody was at Match's door.

Match turned to face the large wooden door, both eyes narrowed in confusion. It was odd enough that Frankie Kelly, and her petite guest, had called at such late an hour but another set of guests? She shrugged and got up from her seat on the sofa. "I'm coming," she answered, adopting the smart-alecky tone she had used when greeting the girls before.

Reagan let out a second sigh. She was not sure how well she could have answered Match's question, anyway.

--

The drive from his father's hide-away in Brooklyn to the Lower East Side in Manhattan did not take Johnny and Whistler very long – mainly because Whistler was a speed demon behind the wheel. In fact, as Whistler sped the car past the ritzy buildings along the border that separated the rich and the seedy portions of the Lower East Side, Johnny only just got a glimpse of the penthouse where he knew the Kelly family lived.

He tapped Whistler on the forearm. "Hey, we just passed her house."

"I know."

"Well, aren't we gonna stop?"

Whistler shook his head while keeping his eye on the road. "I ain't chancing it tonight, Johnny. I think we'd be better off visiting Match O'Rourke and getting her help, instead."

"You're beginning to sound like my Dad, Whis," Johnny complained. He brushed his shaggy dirty blonde hair out of his face before leaning back in the passenger seat.

Whistler did not seem bothered by Johnny Conlon's words. He shrugged slightly. "Hey, Boss Conlon pays me to make sure that nothing happens to your skinny ass. There's only two of us here tonight and I ain't about to go walking up to Jack Kelly's door. Even if you do want his daughter."

Johnny chose to overlook Whistler's comment and, instead, smirked. The facial expression – so like his father's – really marked him as a Conlon. "Look who's calling who a 'skinny ass'," he said, finally. Whistler looked like a skeleton with a red ponytail.

But Whistler knew better than to think Johnny meant anything by his words. That was just Johnny – it was his way of giving in.

Whistler pulled the car over and parked a few blocks away from the Kelly's apartment. Johnny was outside and walking briskly back in the opposite direction before the care was entirely stopped. Whistler groaned and exited the car quickly. The boss's only child was sometimes too impulsive. Right then was a perfect example; without even waiting for his friend (and, technically, body guard), he was already heading down the Manhattan street.

Whistler was shorter than Johnny but could still walk quickly when he wanted to. He caught up with the other boy just they were crossing the exact building where they both knew Jack Kelly (and his family) lived.

Or, maybe, the reason why Whistler was able to catch up was because Johnny stopped right in front of the building. When Whistler met up with him, he was staring up at the top of the building. Whistler shook his head – this was why it was better to go with any of Boss Conlon's whores than get hung up on one girl. Monogamy makes a boy go crazy. Evidence: Johnny Conlon.

"Come on, lover boy," Whistle said, rolling his green eyes, as he hooked one of his hands under Johnny's arm. "If you want to see your lady friend tonight, you have to see Match first. Remember?"

The younger boy did not say anything as Whistler led him away.

The pair definitely stood out as they began to walk the half mile or so that it took to get to the O'Rourke's tenement. Whistler was less conspicuous, wearing a pair of secondhand plus-fours and a simple white shirt – given that he preferred to spend his money on women and drink rather than fashion – but Johnny was walking advertisement for the wealthy – even if the money was ill-gotten. The Conlon boy was wearing a cedar-colored knickers suit with two-toned patent leather shoes in the color of tan and white.

However, both boys exuded such a sense of danger and confidence that none of the bums they encountered, once they crossed into the dirtier streets, even looked twice at them. Besides, this was not the first time that they had taken this trek.

Before they knew it, they had made it to the familiar corner apartment building; it was hidden in the darkness but the boys knew it was there. As quickly as they could – Johnny because he was anxious, Whistler because he had to piss – they had entered into the tenement.

It was dark inside the building and, rather than grope about blindly in the stairwell, both Johnny and Whistler each nicked an oil lamp; Whistler took the one that rested right inside the lobby, Johnny stole the one that sat at the top of the first flight of stairs. With the lamps held carefully in their hands, outstretched so that they could see exactly where they were going, the two boys made it up the three flights that led to Match O'Rourke's apartment in no time.

Whistler placed his filched lamp in the stairwell while Johnny used his to lead them to Match's door. Whistler raised his hand to knock but paused; it almost sounded like Match had company already – and, as far as he knew, she lived alone and rarely invited people into her home. Unless, such as the case of Frankie and Johnny, they could make it worth her while. _I wonder if this could be a trap. _Whistler did not get his job as guard of Johnny for nothing; his slight sense of paranoia kept him on his toes.

Johnny, it seemed, had not heard any sound coming from within the apartment. Careful not to spill any of the hot oil, he elbowed the older boy. "What are you waiting for, Whis?"

Whistler shook his head. "Never mind," he said before raising his hand to knock again. He may be paranoid but at least he was not so impatient. If it turned out to be a trap, after all, he would just have to get as far away from New York before Boss Conlon found out.

--

When Match got up to answer the door, Frankie stood from the plush seat and stretched, trying to fight a case of nerves – nerves brought on by Reagan's question. The seemingly innocent way she asked about Frankie's relationship with Brooklyn – and, therefore, Johnny Conlon – made Frankie feel all the more guilty for playing around behind her parents' back. But she was in love and people did crazy things when they were in love.

Now, normally, it did not bother her that she disobeyed her father and mother's wishes – from the stories that some of her dad's companions told her, her parents broke more rules than even she could dream of – but the introduction of Reagan unsettled her. She knew, even now, that her father was probably trying to figure out what to do with the blonde girl. And, considering that her father was the leader of the Manhattan Mob – and now knew that Reagan was from Brooklyn – the options could not be good. And what if her father found out about her forbidden romance with his enemy's only son?

Not for the first time did Frankie wonder exactly why Reagan came out and told Mr. Blink about her being from Brooklyn and that the boy she had been with was Mickey Finn. She had not spoken to the quiet girl much on the way to Match's house – her mind had been elsewhere. But now, as she sat inside the O'Rourke's home, waiting for Match to send her guest away, she started to think about all that had happened.

_Mickey Finn is dead and Daddy killed him…  
__  
_What was Johnny going to do when he found out that her own father had killed one of his closes friends? What was Johnny's _father_ going to do when he found out?

"Hey, Match, long time no see, eh? I've missed you."

Frankie's breath almost caught in her throat. From her seat next to Reagan, she could not see who it was that was standing on the other side of Match's open door; it was as dark as ever in the hallway and, with the oil lamp resting just behind her, she could only make out two small silhouettes. That voice, however, suggestive and low as it greeted Match, was so familiar to her that she did not need to see who it was. _Whistler Connolly._

And, if Whistler Connolly was at Match O'Rourke's place, that meant only one thing: Johnny Conlon was with him.

Despite the myriad of confused and disturbed thoughts that circulated around her head since meeting Reagan, Frankie grinned. _Johnny is here._


	16. XV

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: _For every prohibition you create you also create an underground._ **SET IN 1921**. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary. But money and infamy wasn't enough for them. It never is.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work. Rae Kelly-Phillips and the children: Edwina, Alden and Mackenzie, are all the creative property of Rae Kelly.

**Author's Note**: _Well, I must say, happy anniversary to _Never Enough_. It is four years to the date that I first published the prologue to this story and, despite the 2.5+ year hiatus, it is still going strong. This chapter introduces more characters, checks up on some of the others and gets us back into Brooklyn (for a bit). I want to dedicate this chapter (and story, really) to any of the people who have ever taken the time to read it and leave a review. I get goose bumps when I see a review alert in my inbox – they really are appreciated._

_I also want to especially thank Rae Kelly, for her help (and prodding) with this story. I hope you like this chapter – I told you that you would, let's just see if I'm right :)_

---

Part XV

Without even turning around, Blink heard as Rae left back her car out of the alley and drove away. He was mildly concerned at the strange manner in which she was acting but pushed such thoughts aside. Someone was responding to his knock.

"Who is it?" The voice was gruff and low but still commanding. _Jack. Well, if Race headed off to the speakeasy already and Mush is home with Gabriel, I guess it makes sense that Jack is answering the door. Boots must not have come back to the office yet._

"Blink."

There was a pause and, from outside the grey door, he heard a rustling of paper and the tell-tale groan of the woman who was inside with Jack. "Alright, if you say you're Blink Moore, than you'd know the answer to this here riddle, right?"

Blink shook his head; Jess, from inside the office, had simply muttered her husband's name. Sometimes Jack Kelly got a bit too paranoid – or, maybe, it was just because he liked riddles. Either way, Blink should have known to expect this. "Right, Jack."

"Good. Here it is." There was another rustling of paper and Blink knew he was straightening out his list of riddles in order to choose one that Blink would know. "Alright: _My first wears my second; my third might be what my first would acquire if he went to sea. Put together my one, two, three, and the belle of New York is the girl for me. What one word am I_?"

_Man…hat…tan…_The blonde man sighed. Jack really liked that particular riddle only because of the answer. "I don't know…Could it be Manhattan?"

The door opened at once. Jack, unlike his earlier expression of confusion and upset, was looking surprised but happier than he had been. Blink's stomach dropped. He really did not want to be the one who brought the boss back down.

He entered the office as Jack closed the door behind him. Then, without a word, Jack retook his seat. Blink took the seat next to Jess.

Once he was settled again, his elbows on his mahogany desk, Jack gestured towards Blink. "Where's my daughter, Blink?"

He had been expecting this. "I saw Frankie and her friend to the door of your apartment before coming back—"

"Why did you come back, Blink?"

The calm way in which Jack was addressing him made Blink almost second guess his actions. _Maybe it was not the smartest idea leaving those two girls alone…_ "The new girl…the blondie? She told me something and I wasn't all that sure that you knew so I had to come back." When Jack did not interrupt him, he continued. "Jack, there's a problem. That kid you shot down at the park?"

"Yeah?"

"Jack, that was Mickey Finn." Jack did not seem to recognize the name. Blink, he realized was, out of nerves, fiddling with his brown eye patch and, under Jack's questioning gaze, he dropped his hand. "A Brooklyn Boy."

"Oh, shit," Jess said, covering her mouth following the curse word. Her green eyes were opened wide and the woman seemed to pale. _Not again…_

Jack turned sharply towards his wife. "Don't you swear, Jess," he said at once, almost as if it were a reflex, before turning back to face the man sitting before him. He then placed one of his thick hands on top of his head, patting the slicked back hair. "You sure, Blink?"

He nodded. "That blonde girl told me. Seemed real hard for her to spit it out but she finally did. She was out with him, spending the evening on our side of the bridge. But she was all serious when she said his name. Even mentioned Spot – called him Boss Conlon."

There was a tense pause before they all head a loud _smack_. Jack had brought his hand down – hard – on top of the desk. "Are you telling me, Blink, that you knew that girl had a tie to Brooklyn and you left her with Frankie? Damn it! I knew I should have taken care of that girl."

If it were not for years of working with Jack Kelly, and understanding his temper, Blink might have lost it right there. The man was glaring daggers at him, this thin mouth set firm. But, before he could reply – how could he reply? _Jack is gonna kill me_ – Jess held up her hand.

"Jack, calm down. I'm sure that Frankie can handle herself. I mean, she's home. What could Reagan do? She's not in Brooklyn, you know."

Never before had Blink appreciated the sway that Jessa Kelly held over her husband. When Jack slowly tore his fierce gaze from Blink to listen to his wife, he felt like he could almost kiss the woman.  
_  
_She was still talking to him. "I think the bigger problem right now is what are we going to do? The last time blood was wrongfully shed a huge fight followed – and that was Brooklyn's fault. Now it's ours. Can we go through that again? Or is Spot going to just come after you?" Her voice, while it had started out strong, was almost faltering now. The repercussions of Jack's brash action seemed to just occur to her.

Jack heard the way her voice seemed to disappear. Slowly, he climbed out of his chair and, after walking around the large desk, stood behind her seat. He placed his hands on the salmon fabric of her dress, his fingers pressed against her shoulders. "Don't worry, Jess. We'll get through this. I promise."

She sniffled. Blink felt entirely uncomfortable. _I'm going to _kill _Mush for leaving me alone this afternoon. I don't think none of this would have happened to me if he would have finished his work._

Jack sighed. "I don't think that I'm going to be able to get anything else done tonight. Jess, I'm going to take you home and check up on Frankie. Maybe we'll be able to get some more information out of the Reagan kid. Blink, you head out to the 'bakery' and shut it down. If that Sherman idiot makes good on his threat, he might go back later. Then go home. You look like hell."

Blink nodded and hurriedly left the office, eager to get his orders done so that he could return home to his wife for the evening. _The day just was rotten and I want to forget it. I ain't sure what's in store for us all but I need to get ready for it all._

It was not until he was approaching the new speakeasy just off Duane Street that he remember that he wanted to tell the Kelly's about Rae's visit.

--

"Mama!"

Rae almost teetered on her heels as a boy, short for his age, came running in and wrapped his arms around her skirt. He was small and thin with a head of dark hair – _just like his father had had_, Rae thought with a sad smile. Sometimes, when Alden got her off guard, she was surprised at the similarities between the ten year old and his father. And it made her sad.

She tried to cover up her feelings by stretching her smile wider. "Alden, honey, how are you?" she asked as she bent over and gave her only son a tight hug. The boy, ever since his father's death and their relocation to Manhattan, had become very attached to his mother.

"I'm good, Mama. Did you bring Spotty back with you?" He let go of his mother's legs and took a step back, looking up at her with bright brown eyes.

"Not yet, baby. Spotty will come home soon." She thought it was adorable how Alden had taken to calling Spot 'Spotty'. Not to soon after moving into his rather large house, Spot had instructed Rae to use his surname. It made things easier, he said, if the boys did not know that her first husband – and his children – was from Manhattan. Alden was a huge fan of Spot and his son, Johnny, and did not mind acting like part of one huge family. Neither did Mackenzie; the youngest of Rae's children, Kenzie was only six months and, as far as everyone but the immediate family knew, was Spot's daughter. He regarded her as such, anyway.

There was only one flaw in the Phillips-Conlon household: Rae's fifteen year old daughter, Edwina. Wina had been friends with Frankie Kelly (Jack and Jess's daughter) and Lila Younger (Danny and Josephine's daughter) and was quite upset when she had to leave her home and friends in favor of moving to Brooklyn. At first it seemed like she would readjust alright, considering she developed a huge infatuation with Spot's seventeen year old son, Johnny. Not soon after, though, the pair developed more of a sibling relationship than a lover relationship and Wina started to act out. She only became under control following Kenzie's birth.

"Mama, are you home?" Wina called as entered the foyer of the Conlon home. She was a tall girl, almost as big as her mother, with the same fair hair and grey eyes. She had her father's lush lips, in contrast to Rae's thin ones, and normally cheery disposition. In the month's following Kenzie's birth, Rae had seen more of her cheerful attitude return. _I hope she's finally getting used to her father's death. _She knew that neither she, nor her children, would ever forget Jason Phillips but she knew they had to carry on. Her daughter might resent the fact that she moved in with another man so soon following her own father's murder – and, unknown to her mother, she _knew _the sordid details of her father's death – but Rae did what she had to. At least she had turned back to the only other man she had ever loved.

Rae shook her head briefly before greeting her daughters; as Wina walked forward her mother, Rae could see Kenzie being cradled in her older sister's arms. "Yes, dear. How did everything go today? Did you hear from your father?"

A flash of annoyance crossed the girl's face. She hated it when her mother referred to Spot Conlon as her father. Rae did so because none of the associates who were in and out of the Conlon house knew of the circumstance – except for Scotch O'Reilly. They assumed that Rae was the mother of all the children – and that she had been tucked away for safety concerns. Rae did her best to follow through on the charade. And, as she looked at the beautiful (and expensive) ring she wore on her left finger, just above the simple band Snitch had given her near eighteen years ago, she thought, _At least it won't be false much longer. Soon enough I shall be Rae Conlon._

"No, Mama. _He_ never came by today. It was just me, Alden and Kenzie. Oh, and Mickey Finn for the morning. He borrowed some of Johnny's clothes for some date he had," she said before adjusting Kenzie in her arms. When the baby, woken from her nap, began to cry, Wina extended her towards her mother.

Rae nodded and accepted the baby, rubbing her back gently. "Did Johnny come back yet?"

"Nope, Mama," Alden piped up. "He hasn't been back to the house yet."

Kenzie's cries had quieted almost right away. Rae rested her small head – full of dark hair; _she's going to be another one, just like Alden –_ on her right shoulder. "Good. Well, now that I'm home, it's time for bed, my babies." Wina started to scowl but Rae silenced the girl with a look. She had never let the children know about Snitch's work before his death; now that they knew – or, at least, Wina knew – she was even more protective of them. Rae knew that much of Spot's work for the Brooklyn Boys started at night, after he returned from his day job. Most nights, she had the children in bed before some of the shadier of Spot's boys came to the house.

She handed Kenzie, sleeping again, back to Wina. "Put Kenzie to bed, Wina. I'll be up to talk to you all in a minute. You too, Alden," she added when the boy seemed to sneak in the direction of the Parlor Room.

Once her children had all headed up the stairs to their bedrooms, Rae brought her fingers to her temples. The way Edwina had casually mentioned one of the Finn brother's made her feel sick. _Could it be that Mickey is the one who got shot in Manhattan? Would he have been foolish enough to bring his date there? And, if so, where's the girl?_

Her thoughts were interrupted however when the door behind her opened. She dropped her hand and spun around. There was a man, nearly untouched by wrinkles, with fair hair, streaked with grey. He was on the average size but his very presence demanded attention. The suit he wore was dark and contrasted greatly with the lightness of his cyan eyes. He smiled charmingly at Rae as she turned to face him. "Hello, love."

Spot was home – and he was in a good mood. _Uh-oh._ _How am I going to tell him?_


	17. XVI

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: _For every prohibition you create you also create an underground._ **SET IN 1921**. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary. But money and infamy wasn't enough for them. It never is.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _Now that was some writer's block. I must have sat in front of my laptop for hours trying to work on this chapter. Seriously, it did not want to come. But, finally, I got it done. And, because I am sorry for the wait, this is the longest chapter for this story to date. I was going to put the Frankie/Johnny reunion scene in here but that will be next chapter. At least I know what's going to happen then, eh? _

---

Part XVI

He strode into the room, removing the dark brown jacket of his suit as he went. He folded it and placed it over his right arm before approaching Rae. He leaned in and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. "Hello, love," he repeated.

"Good evening, Spot," she said, distractedly, stepping away from him. She crossed her arms over her black dress, rubbing her upper arms with her hands. _Just how do I tell him? _When they were younger, and she had something of importance to tell him, she would just blurt it out and deal with the repercussions as they came. But they were grown now and she was dealing with much more delicate matters. _Like telling Spot that one of his boys had been killed… by Jack Kelly, no less._

Spot noticed her nerves and looked as her questioningly. The Rae he knew was never one to look so apprehensive. "Is everything all right, Rae?"

She shook her head slowly. He sounded so concerned and she just felt bad about telling him – especially when she did not know anything more than Blink Moore's perspective on the ordeal. But, maybe, her earlier thought would prove true; maybe it would be better if _she _told him before anyone else did. "Spot, there was an accident."

Before she could continue, he jerked up straight. "Was it Kenzie? Or one of the other kids?"

"No, no," she answered, hurriedly, as she uncrossed her arms and placed her hands calmingly on his chest. "Our family is fine. But…"

"But what, Rae?"

She sighed. "I was in Manhattan this afternoon—"

"Why?"

She tensed; the suspicious way he said that one word put her on guard. She knew he did not approve of her flitting between boroughs by herself but she felt the need to do it anyway. "Because, Spot. Where else am I going to put down the flowers I bought for Jason's grave, hmm?"

For a moment, Spot had the decency to look ashamed. "Sorry, Rae. You know I didn't mean to come across like that." After all, he knew what it was like to lose a loved one. He visited Tess's burial site almost weekly, before Rae came back to Brooklyn; he used to ask the slab of marble what he should do with various ventures as if his dead first wife could really hear him. If Rae felt that she had to place a bouquet of flowers at the head of Snitch's grave on the monthly anniversary of his death, he understood and accepted it. _If only she would bring one of the boys with her_, he thought but knew she could not. How would it look if a Brooklyn Boy was escorting Rae around? One of the deals the pair had made when she began to stay with him was that no one would ever know that she was from Manhattan; likewise, rumors of their coupling would not be known on the other side of the Bridge.

"I know," she sighed as she closed her eyes. "I know. It's my fault for snapping at you. You see, when I was in Manhattan, I stopped to talk to Hayden Moore—"

"Who?"

She sighed again, and this time she re-opened her eyes. He could see through their grey depths; Rae was upset. "Please stop interrupting me, Spot. I have something important to tell you."

"Sorry."

"Anyway, Hayden – you may remember him as Blink," she said and Spot nodded. He longed to begin a new round of questioning: Why were you talking to someone from the Manhattan Mob? What did you talk about? Are you crazy? But he did not. He could see she was struggling to tell him what had happened so, for one of the first times in Spot Conlon's life, he remained silent. "I saw him on the street, walking, and I figured that I'd say 'hello' to him. It's nice to see some of my old pals, you know."

She was baiting him now. He bit his tongue to keep quiet. He knew she was just trying to goad him into another argument; she was losing her nerve and did not want to tell him whatever it was she knew.

He was right; she had been stalling. As quickly as she could, Rae told him the truth: "Spot, Blink told me that there was an accident in Manhattan this evening. Jack Kelly shot one of the Finn brothers and killed him."

Spot was silent as he processed her last statement. He could see that Rae was already shrinking away from him in expectation of his reaction. He did not surprise her. "You've got to be kidding me, Rae! Cowboy took out one of my boys? And one of the Finn's at that? I'll kill him! I'll fucking shoot him dead!" he exploded, dropping his coat jacket to the ground as he threw his hands up, any semblance of dignity lost in his outburst.

"No, no, Spot. I'm not done. There's more to it," she added hurriedly. She could already see him drawing his pistol out. She did not want any of the children to see this and, considering the volume at which he was yelling, she was sure that one of them would be coming downstairs to check up on them soon. "It was in defense, Spot. Blink said that the kid tried to do his wife in – remember Jess? Well, he was going to crack her skull in with a rock when Jack chanced upon them. Before anyone knew it, Jack plugged him and he went down. Think about it, Spot," she added, almost pleading now, "what would you do if someone was trying to get me? Wouldn't you shoot them? I would for you."

And that seemed to hit home. The wild-eyed stare he had adopted upon hearing the news faded until his eyelids all but hid his cyan eyes. He was breathing heavily but he placed his pistol back into the holster he kept on him at all times. Finally, when he could speak again, he said, "Which one, Rae? Was it Matt or Mickey?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Blink was hurrying about and didn't really get to tell me much."

"Alright," he said, his hand now rubbing his forehead. He had one hell of a headache coming. His very being was screaming that he should cross that Bridge and go after Kelly but he could not. Not yet. He needed more information first. Like who the dead boy was. "Alright, Rae. We won't go after Jacky Boy yet. But you do know what we have to do, right?"

Rae nodded. "Let me get my purse and I'll go with you. I mean, someone has to tell Johnny."

--

It had been about an hour or so since Johnny and Whistler left him alone in the hide-away shack and it was Matthew Finn's turn to suffer from dreadful boredom. As soon as his two comrades had left, he had put his and Whistler's chairs together and spread himself out, relaxing.

Before long that relaxation turned to curiosity. He wondered how far his younger (by one year) had gotten with his blonde friend and just _what _were Whistler and Johnny up to?

Over the course of that time, Matt went on to play three rounds of solitaire with the deck of cards that Whistler left behind, he did a round of jumping jacks before he became too sweaty, came up with a few plausible excuses for Boss Conlon's son's absence – because, when Boss Conlon came by for his nightly visit, he _would _want to know where his son was – and, after all that, he found himself back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, legs propped up on the card table.

_Knock! Knock! _

Matt almost fell off of the chair he was so surprised. He did not think that Johnny and Whistler had returned from their journey into Manhattan yet and it was still too early for his brother to be home from his date – he had said he planned on spending the entire day with that blondie, beginning early in the morning until he finally was able to get her into his bed that night. Matt had laughed at Mickey's plan early that morning. He had bet his brother a whole week of pay from Boss Conlon that the girl spent the entire day with him but, as soon as it went dark, she would want to go home to her Mama. Mickey took him on and Matt knew that his brother would not finish his date a minute before midnight; he would want as much time as possible.

That left one possible person, really. None of the other Brooklyn Boys were allowed in this hide-away. It was designed specifically for Johnny Conlon and his three friends/bodyguards and Boss Conlon was careful not to let any of the other Boys know about it in case they got any ideas and wanted to take out his son.

Matt gulped. As he got up to open the front door, he was nervous to see who it was on the other end. He had locked the door behind them after the other two boys had left, just in case. In other words, Whistler's paranoia was beginning to rub off on him.

He was not surprised (though mildly relieve) to find Boss Conlon waiting for him on the other side of the door. He was, however, surprised to see that, after the Boss strode into the small room, his mistress, Rae Kelly-Phillips, followed him in. His small, beady eyes took her in before looking downward. She was an attractive woman and the Boss grew very mad when anyone ogled her.

But Spot Conlon was too distracted to notice. He looked at Matt and knew – if Blink was telling the truth – that Mickey Finn was dead. And, most likely, Mickey's older brother had no idea. If he had, he would not have been lazing about the hide-away. "Matt," he said in his 'power' voice, "where is everyone?"

A quick glimpse around the room showed Spot that no one was there but Matt. Whistler Connolly and Johnny should have been there, too. _Unless they were with Mickey when he got shot…_ Spot's heart tightened at the thought but his face did not betray any emotions. He just stared expectantly at the boy in front of him.

Under the intense gaze of the Boss, any and all excuses he had flew out of his head. Matt Finn had not been hired by Boss Conlon for his brains – he had been hired for his brute strength and his ability to follow all sorts of orders. But, as Johnny had ordered him to lie, he tried. "Well, you see, Mickey went on a date with some girl and, uh, then there was just me, Whis and Johnny. Then some, uh, lead came in and, well, Whis and Johnny went to check it out. And, um, I'm the only one left."

Spot looked at the boy in disbelief now. He believed the first half of the statement; vaguely, he remember Mickey Finn asking for the day off so that he could go get laid. But he could tell that Matt was lying about his son. He shook his head. "Alright, Finn. I'm sorry to have to tell you this in such a way but I know that you're lying to me and, well, maybe if I'm honest with you, you'll be honest with me."

"Spot. I don't think—"

"Rae. Keep out of it," he said. Rae knew better than to question him in front of the Boys. He could not have her questioning his business; it would make him look weak in front of the Boys and he could not have that. Once she had stopped, he turned back to Matt. The boy, he could see, was damn near shaking. _Good. _ "I'll go first, Finn. Your brother was shot and killed today in Manhattan. Your turn."

It took a second for Matt to understand the words. He knew the definition of each one separately but, when combined in such a way, he was incapable of understanding them. _Mickey…dead? _He was so dumbfounded but one thing stuck out. _Manhattan_. "Who did it?" he finally asked. It was a dumb question, really.

Spot looked at him, a bit of pity in his eyes. _Maybe I was a bit harsh… _He sighed. "Jack Kelly, the head of the Mob," he said. When Matt nodded, he held out his hands. "Alright. It's your turn. I was honest with you, you be honest with me. Where is Johnny?"

Matt was so concerned with what the Boss had just told him that he spoke without thinking. "Him and Whis went to Manhattan. He's going to see his girlfriend."

" Manhattan? Girlfriend?" Spot repeated. This was news to him. As far as he knew, Johnny did not have a girlfriend. Especially not one in Manhattan.

"Yeah," Matt replied. There seemed to be sudden recognition in his dark eyes. If Spot did not know Matt to be a bit on the dumb side, he would have thought that the Finn boy was making some kind of plan. But the look was gone and only hurt remained. However, Spot's preoccupation with Matthew Finn's feelings lasted only long enough for the boy to give her name. Then all hell seemed to break loose.

"He's seeing Frankie Kelly."

--

"Jack, calm down," Jess said pleadingly as she followed her husband into the elevator lift. His quiet acceptance of the night's events had slowly given way to a fiery anger. Rather than wait for Boots to come back round to the office, Jack led the way, instead, to the apartment building where they lived. His head had swiveled back and forth – he was not sure if any of Spot's boys had learned about the earlier murder but he was not taking chances – as he muttered curses under his breath.

She knew what he was thinking. _This time it had been his fault. If anyone else dies, he has no one to blame but himself,_ she thought before reaching her hand out to him. She placed it comfortingly on his upper arm and squeezed.

Jack shook his head. He turned to face the young man, clad in a simple knickers suit, who occupied the corner of the lift. "The top floor," he said.

The boy nodded and began to operate the machinery. Jack's instruction was unnecessary; all of the doormen knew who lived on that top floor.

Neither of the Kelly's said anything more as they rode up. It was quiet and tense – and that was not only the environment in the small room. Under her tight grip, Jess felt Jack's muscles tense and tighten. She gave him another squeeze but did not say anything. She knew better; her husband would not speak about anything important in front of anyone but Mobpersonnel.

The door to the lift opened and the boy bowed his head in respect. "Evening, Sir. Ma'am."

Jack ignored his pleasantness, choosing to exit the elevator and storm right over to the door of his apartment. Jess smiled apologetically. "Good night."

The boy nodded and, after she delicately stepped out of the elevator, he closed the door and was gone.

Once they were alone again, Jess tried to speak to her husband again. "Jack, listen to me. We're home. We'll go inside, chat with the girl from Brooklyn and tell Frankie that she's going to be confined to the house until this all gets sorted out. How does that sound?"

"That sounds… alright, dear," he said, sounding tired all of a sudden. To look at the man, it was hard to tell – based on his broad frame and thick brown hair – that he was turning forty years old on his next birthday. It was only at times like these, when issues got out of his control, that his eyes lost their shine and he seemed to age.

Jess calmly patted his back as he reached out and turned the door handle. It was locked. "Well, at least Frankie listened to me. For once," he added with a snort. The sadness that had just permeated the small room between the front door and the elevator seemed to fade.

She watched as Jack shook his head and patted his coat pockets for the key to the door. When he found it, he pulled it out triumphantly, and Jess had to cover a smile. _I think everything will be fine. Maybe we're just overreacting. _

Jack placed the key into the keyhole and jiggled it until he heard the distinct _click _of the lock being undone. He put the key back into his right side pocket and made to open the door.

Utter darkness greeted the pair. He groped for the switch that would turn the fancy electric light on and illuminate the apartment. Jack found it and flipped it on. "Precious, your mother and I are home," he called. He waited and tried again. "We would like to talk to you and your little friend, honey."

There came no reply. Frankie – and, with her, Reagan – was not in the apartment.


	18. XVII

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: _For every prohibition you create you also create an underground._ **SET IN 1921**. The rivalry between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys, between Kelly & Conlon, is legendary. But money and infamy wasn't enough for them. It never is.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _I'll be totally honest with you all. I can't stand this chapter. However, I've been working on it for four days and I can't get it the way I want it. Instead of spending any further time on it (especially when I promised Rae an update and I promised Bittah I would get to Curiouser & Curiouser), I thought I would send it out without adding more to it. The next chapter is going to be very important, though. I just hope I get over my semi-writer's block. As of right now, I want to say that this story is near 75 percent done. The good stuff (plot wise) is coming up shortly. Enjoy._

---

Part XVII

While Whistler and Match exchanged pleasantries (and not so pleasantries) at the door, Frankie stood from her seat and smoothed the skirt of her white dress. Reagan could not help but notice that, unlike her, Frankie had managed to remain spotless throughout their jaunt downtown and their minor spill in the hallway.

Finally, after a few more words were said at the door, Charli let her second set of guests enter the apartment. The look of surprise on Johnny's face was quite evident; as he hurried over to Frankie and wrapped her up in a tight hug, Whistler looked slightly vindicated. "There you go, Johnny. Ain't you glad now that I stopped you from making an ass of yourself? Wanting to stop at the Kelly's building, Jesus. I just don't know what's going on inside your heads sometimes."

Reagan found it amusing, and partly embarrassing, to see the sandy-haired boy, Johnny – while still holding tight to Frankie with one hand – make a rude gesture behind her back.

His red-headed companion just laughed as he took the vacant seat next to Reagan.

He turned to face her, a smile still thinning his lips. She could feel the heavy gaze of his green eyes as he looked her over, taking her appearance in.

Reagan, aware that her dress was torn and stained, raised a hand to her chin-length hair self-consciously. She patted the straight, blonde strands, trying not to meet the boy's gaze. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his eyebrows rise questioningly. Her face felt like it was on fire; she lowered her hand and patted her cheek instead.

He laughed again. "Hello, there. You're a darling little thing, aren't you?" he said flirtatiously as he leaned in to get a better look at her face; the oil lamp was burning low and, while it was better than the dark of the hallway, the room was nowhere as lit as she would have liked it.

She grew more flustered the closer the boy drew in. She swung her head to the right, searching for someone to help her out of such an uncomfortable situation. Frankie, however, was still standing in the center of the small apartment, her arms slung around the neck of the second boy as if she was afraid that, should she let go, he would vanish forever. Match had, strangely enough, fled the small room after inviting the two boys in. Reagan thought she heard something going on in a second room and could only wonder what her hostess was doing. She was alone.

_Great._ _First I have Mickey, rest his soul, pawing at me,_ she thought, lowering her head and staring at her shoes, taking care to look anywhere but at the boy sitting next to her. _Now I have this goon. _

Inwardly, Reagan groaned. She had never expected her day would progress like this when she agreed to spend the afternoon and evening with Mickey Finn. _Now Mickey's dead and, after the longest walk in my life, I've been shanghaied by the daughter of the Manhattan Mob leader… who happens to know that I'm from Brooklyn but is fine with that. And if that wasn't enough, now I am sitting in a dank apartment on the wrong side of town, being stared at by some letch. I'm dirty, tired, hungry, nervous and confused. _She shook her head. _I want my Mama. _Reagan sniffed at the unfairness of it all, just hoping that the boy would leave her alone.

The skinny boy did not seem deterred by her lack of enthusiasm; neither did he pay any attention to her sniffs. Instead he stood up slightly, stooping over the chair, before he dragged it over the lush carpet. He did not stop until his chair was touching the wood of Reagan's chair. Obviously quite satisfied with himself, he let the chair drop and sat back down. "The name is Whistler. What about you?"

_Whistler?_ Reagan's head shot up. _Oh no, God, please tell me he didn't just say_ '_Whistler'… like Mickey's pal, Whistler… like the Brooklyn Boy, Whistler… _Cursing the shoddy light, she cocked her head slightly to the right and squinted. She tried to use the limited light available in Match's apartment to get a better look at his face. Not like it would help, though. Mickey never let her close enough to his friends – especially Whistler Connolly, for reasons she fully understood now if this guy _was _Mickey's Whistler. Mickey preferred – _had preferred_ – to keep her attention focused on him.

It was then that Frankie finally pulled away from the other boy. Grabbing his left arm with her right hand, she led him over to the two remaining chairs further down; Whistler had taken the one she had occupied while she was greeting Johnny. As she sat down, she rolled her eyes at Whistler. "At it already, Whis? Leave Reagan alone."

There was a quick silence as the blonde girl's name sank in. Then…

"Reagan?" asked both boys at once. Reagan jumped at the sound of her name but neither boy was looking at her just then. They were looking at each other. Johnny scratched the back of his neck as he narrowed his eyes into the direction of Reagan and Whistler. Whistler caught his questioning look and shrugged.

Then, leaning in even closer than he had been before, Whistler turned his attention back to Reagan. But, rather than look at her face, he looked at her chest. He nodded and turned back to the other boy. "Yeah, Johnny. I remember these tits. This is that dame that we was talking about today," he announced, speaking as if Reagan could not hear him.

"Johnny?" asked Reagan, mostly to herself. _Didn't Frankie say something about a Johnny before? Johnny… Shit. _"Johnny Conlon?" she said again, her voice slightly shaking. If the red-headed boy called Whistler knew her then it only followed that this Whistler was Mickey's Whistler. And Mickey had a Johnny, too – Boss Conlon's son, Johnny Conlon. _Oh, double shit… _If her mother knew she was cussing she would be having a conniption but there was no other word in the whole of the English language that could express exactly how she was feeling at that exact moment but a cuss word.

As confused as the three Brooklyners appeared, Frankie's confusion far surpassed their own. "Johnny? Whis? Reagan? Uh, guys? Did I miss something? Do you all know each other?"

Reagan found she could no longer speak. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth a full confession would fall out.

Whistler, meanwhile, laughed and glanced at Frankie. "This little lady is the skirt that good ol' Mick was chasing for the past few months. Didn't you know that your pal, here, was from Brooklyn, Frankie?"

"She told me," Frankie said. "But she didn't say nothing about knowing you guys."

Reagan could feel the blush that was currently staining her cheeks. However, Johnny cut in so that she did not have to answer to Frankie's statement. "I don't know how well Whistler knows the girl but I've never met her. I've just known about her from what Mick says. He has it bad for the girl."

_Had_, Reagan could not help but think as her blush deepened. It occurred to her, just then, that she was going to miss Mickey Finn. She had been so concerned with saving her skin following his murder that she had not given thought to his removal from her life. _If I get out of this alive, I'll make sure he gets a nice burial… Maybe Mama will make me a black dress to go to his funeral._

"Oh, I've seen her before," Whistler added, wolfishly, bringing Reagan out of her depressing thoughts. Now she was slightly disturbed. "But Mickey made me keep my hands to myself. Said he picked her out first." He shrugged and turned back to Reagan. "Say, Rita—"

"Reagan, Whis," corrected Johnny. "The name ain't that hard to say."

"I know, Johnny. I just like the name of Rita better. So, anyway, _Reagan_," he amended, "if you're here with Frankie, where is Mickey?"

Just like Whistler and Johnny had earlier, Frankie and Reagan jerked their heads toward each other, trying to find the other's eyes. Both of the girls knew what had happened to the younger Finn brother. Neither wanted to tell: Frankie because she was beginning to worry about her father's safety; Reagan because she did not want to be involved in this any further.

Frankie swallowed and stared at Reagan. The blonde girl shook her head shortly, moving slowly as not to draw Whistler's attention back to her. Right then he was sitting back in his chair, looking from Frankie to Johnny to Reagan and back. It was hard to tell but the red-headed boy looked almost amused by the tension that had just filled the small room.

Johnny took Frankie's hand and squeezed. "Did I miss something, Frankie?" he asked, throwing the same words back at her. The gulp and brief nod in Reagan's direction had not gone by unnoticed by him.

In the limited time that Reagan had known Frankie – a few hours only but it had seemed like far longer to the girl – this was the first time that she had witnessed the Manhattan girl lose her cool. Frankie had been confident while facing down the barrel of a loaded gun (even if it was wielded by her father); she had been in control (for the most part) while trying to convince that one-eyed man to leave them be; she had been calm while the pair of them had crossed the line from the ritzy part of town to the not-so-ritzy part of town.

But just then she faltered. She did not know how to tell Johnny about Mickey's death. But she knew she had to.

Frankie had known Johnny her entire life. When their fathers broke their partnership and the rift between the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys grew, the childhood friends were torn apart – only to be reunited shortly after her fourteenth birthday. They had been together, sneaking kisses and planning forbidden trysts (with the help of Match O'Rourke), ever since. In all that time she had never had a secret from him. She could not keep the truth from him.

"Johnny," she began but paused; she could feel Reagan's stare and knew that the blonde Brooklyn girl did not think that Frankie should tell him. _I have too, though. It had to come from me. _She took a deep breath, her lower lip trembling slightly. "Johnny, Mickey is dead. He… he was shot this afternoon. In Manhattan." There was another pause. "And, Johnny, it… it was my dad—" she added, trying to explain what Reagan had said happened, trying to show him that it was not an unwarranted attack on her father's behalf. But he did not give her a chance.

Johnny pulled his hand out of Frankie's grasp and stood up. He ran that same hand through his cropped sandy hair, trying to make sense of what Frankie had just admitted. Whistler just, as was his namesake, whistled; it was a long and slow whistle that said more than any amount of words.

Reagan placed her hands in her lap, waiting for the blame to fall. She had been the last one with Mickey before he had been shot. Surely the Brooklyn Boys would see it as all her fault. Frankie, on the other hand, lowered her green eyes so that they were resting on her lonely hand. The rough way that Johnny had drawn away from her touch made the confession – and the repercussions – all the harder. With nothing better to do, and the sting of Johnny's rejection hitting her hard, Frankie began to cry. Soft sniffles at first that grew louder when he turned his back on her.

The news was such a shock that neither of the boys knew what to say at first. They had always known that death was imminent; the odds against all four of them surviving adolescence in a dirty business such as the one they were involved in were slim to none. The fact that the death would come at the hand of one of the Manhattan Mob was equally understood – it came with the territory when one was a Brooklyn Boy. However, it was one thing to understand that it could, and probably would happen. It was another to realize that Mickey Finn was dead. Actually dead.

Johnny was the first to speak, finally. "Frankie, don't cry. I'm trying to think about what's going to happen…" he said, his statement trailing off. He knew what was going to happen – they all, somehow, _knew _what was gong to happen once his father heard of the murder – but he did not want to admit it just yet. Just like Frankie had done, pushing aside the realization that her father would have to be held accountable at some point for his actions, Johnny did not want to think about his father's reaction.

His words, of course, only made her cry a bit louder. Everything was hitting home for her at that moment and Frankie, for one of the first times in her life, was frightened. It did not make things any better that Reagan had not backed up her story – or that Whistler, quite unlike himself, had not added in his own two cents.

It was then that Match reappeared. Coming from the hallway, holding a tray of five liquid-filled glasses, she paused in the entrance of the sititing room. There was an oil lamp kept on a side table just at the entrance; she was able to see the four young adults, three resting on chairs while the Conlon boy was on his feet. Not a one of them were making eye contact – they were all staring sadly at the floor. And, unless her ears were playing tricks on her, Frankie – Frankie _freaking _Kelly – was crying.

Match placed the tray onto the side table, pushing the lamp a bit to the side. She placed her hands on her hips; she did not like it when she missed out on something. From the look of things, she had missed a big 'something' while preparing drinks for her guests.

"What the hell did I just miss?"


	19. XVIII

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: A take on _Romeo & Juliet. _In 1921 New York, the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys ruled the city. After a brief war, there was peace but it was never enough to create trust. All it took was one night – and one gunshot – to shatter that illusion.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _Yeah, I'm going to just pretend that it hasn't been _forever _since I updated this story. Instead, I'm going to point out that, once again, I changed the summary of the story. If you go back and look at previous chapters, you can see what direction the story was going in and how it revised itself (Plot? Outline? What's that?) as time went on. But, now that this is about 80 percent or so done, I can definitely say I know how this will (eventually) end. This (should) be the last summary I have. But I like it. Just a note to the readers, though – this is not an exact rendition of Romeo and Juliet. This is, as you see, more of a 'star-crossed lover' thing, feuding families dealie. That's the cliché of the story. There are still many surprises left though so you should definitely keep reading. And me? I'll try to get this out on a timelier manner. Woot._

---

Part XVIII

Not one of them knew how to answer Match's question. Frankie was still crying, Reagan was still wondering just when she would she would be able to put this behind her and go home, Whistler still had yet to say a word and Johnny… Johnny just stamped his foot in anger. "God damn it," he exploded, lifting his hand to his head and slicking his short sandy hair back.

Match lifted her eyebrow. "What was that, Conlon?"

"Mickey's dead, Match. That's what. Shit," the boy continued angrily, dropping his hand from his head and sticking it into the pocket of his trousers.

Frankie hiccupped as she sobbed, her shoulders shaking slightly as she grew even louder. The angrier that Johnny got, the more she continued to grow upset. It was hard to put forth the front that she was the infallible daughter of Jack Kelly; sometimes – especially under great stress – she cracked under the pressure and became inconsolable… like just then.

Johnny knew that and instantly regretted his outward show of anger. Adopting a calmer, though strangled, tone, he retook his seat next to Frankie and began to rub her back soothingly with his left hand. Her head was dropped into her hands, hiding her face from him. He used his right hand to pull her curls out of her face. "It's going to be alright, Frankie," he lied, trying to stop her crying. No matter what, he hated to see a girl cry. "I promise."

_And it will be_, Johnny thought to himself just as the answer came to him. A steely glint came to his blue-green eyes. He knew what he could do - what they _would _do. But it all depended on Frankie. Would _she _do it? He leaned forward and, using his hand to guide her face toward him, he looked down at her and began to wipe away at her tears.

The girl seemed to relax under his gentle touch. At the very least, her cries began to soften as she got herself under control. When she was finally able to speak, she looked up at Johnny, half of her face still damp with tears. "Are you sure, Johnny?"

He did not get to answer. Whistler did instead. His face was twisted into a morbidly amused expression as he snorted out loud. "Don't lie to her, Johnny. You know that something is going to go down now. Your Pop ain't gonna take to kindly to Kelly killing Mickey. You know it, I know it, Frankie knows it – that's why she's sobbing. Hell, even Blondie over here knows that there's trouble," he added, gesturing to where Reagan was currently sitting tensely on the edge of her seat. "She's been looking like she's about to bolt for the door ever since Frankie told us what happened."

Reagan felt her face grow hot and the heat had nothing to do with the additional two candles that Match had just lit up to further illuminate the small room. She had not known that her discomfort was so noticeable. As nonchalantly as she could, she leaned back into her seat and crossed her legs demurely.

Whistler made another noise of amusement before crossing his arms over his chest and nodding at his pal knowingly. "Come on, Johnny. Something's going to happen unless we do something about it. So, what do we do about it?"

There was another silence, as awkward as the one that followed Frankie's confession. Match, after placing one candle at the foot of Reagan's seat (the chair closest to the center of the room) and cradling the other in a holder, she sat down in the doorway to the other room. From the glow of the candle, Reagan could see that she was watching the pair, almost thoughtfully. However, after the blunt way in which Johnny told her of Mickey's death, she was staying just as quiet as Reagan.

"Don't worry, Whis," Johnny said, his eyes focused solely on Frankie's face though he spoke to Whistler. "I got a plan," he added, lowering his hand so that, once again, he was holding onto Frankie's. She gave him a weak squeeze in response.

"I figured you would. I just hope it ain't anything too stupid," Whistler offered, leaning to his left, away from the bobbing flame of the candle off to his right. He pretended not to hear Reagan's sigh of relief that he was much further away from her than before. When Johnny did not set his mind at ease, Whistler poked his back. "It ain't a dumb plan, is it?"

Johnny continued to ignore Whistler. Whistler, though it was hard to tell, went even paler than his already pasty white skin allowed as something he had thought of earlier that night came rushing back to him: Johnny Conlon did bad things when he was bored. He added to that thought just then: Johnny Conlon did bad things when he was bored – he did even worse things when he felt threatened. Normally Whistler had the Finn brothers to help him keep the Boss's son in line. But Mickey was dead and Matt, tragically unaware of his younger brother's fate, was waiting out back in Brooklyn. "Hey, Johnny?"

He did not remove his piercing gaze from Frankie; the way he was staring made the other three occupants of the room feel like they were hidden within the darkness of the room, forgotten. Frankie, no longer crying, was peering back at him, wordlessly questioning him. He seemed softer than before, though she could not deny that he was still furious and hurt at the news she had shared with him. "Johnny?" she whispered.

While the both of them were still sitting in their respective seats, they had swiveled their bodies so that they were facing each other. He did not answer her, either – at least, not with words. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. Then, with Match, Reagan and Whistler as an audience, he drew back slightly before placing a gentle kiss against her flesh.

Of them all, Frankie looked the most surprised at his actions. Though he would be the first to admit to the feelings he had for her, Johnny Conlon was not the type of boy who wore his heart on his sleeve; he was rarely affectionate with her in front of their friends. The sweetness of the gesture, though it was not its intent, pained the girl; she felt that his strange reaction was a result of being told the devastating news of Mickey's murder.

"Johnny… I'm so sor—" Frankie began when he pulled his lips away from her skin. There were tears welling up in her green eyes again; her heart was breaking. To the girl, she was feeling as though she was losing her two great loves: her father (_what would happen when Spot Conlon heard of this war-worthy action?_) and her lover (_surely he can't stay with the girl whose father killed one of his closest friends…_).

"Shh…" Johnny whispered, cutting her off. He stood up from his seat, pulling at something on his hand as he did so. Mickey was dead – he knew that and it _did _hurt. But Mickey was gone and Frankie was here. He was not going to lose her, too. There was only way that he could be sure of that, sure that neither his father nor hers could tear them apart. He cleared his throat and palmed the ring before repositioning it.

Reagan caught the action and her blue eyes widened; with the candle placed at her foot, she had seen the metallic band that Johnny was wearing on his right hand – the ring that he was now holding loosely between his thumb and pointer finger. In a moment of certainty, Reagan knew what Johnny Conlon was planning on doing. She knew what was coming next.

Match and Whistler, too, seemed to guess that something was up. At the very least, Whistler groaned but did not say another word just yet. Match made a noise that, to Reagan's ear, sounded very similar to the high-pitched cry her cat, Buttons, made when she accidentally trod on his tail. Reagan turned her head sharply when she heard the noise but Match was covering her mouth. The girl coughed twice and lowered her gaze. Whistler snorted at her actions.

And, as all this was happening, Johnny just stood there, watching Frankie. Under his scrutiny, she had not started to cry again. In a way, it seemed as if she had stopped breathing. Either that or time had stopped moving.

Then the moment was broken and Johnny bent down so that he was on one knee. Whistler groaned a second time and Match, rather than squeal again, took in a deep breath. Reagan just watched with an interested eye. As awkward and unstable as her entire evening had been, she had to admit that there was just something romantic about this whole scene. Even if it was dark and the whole occurrence followed the announcement that a young man had been murdered only a few hours prior…

Again, only Frankie seemed surprised at what was happening. Though, from what Reagan could see, she looked more confused than surprised. It was not until he lifted the ring, holding it before him so that it was guaranteed to glint off of the lamp behind the chairs, that Frankie understood what was happening. She started bobbing her head up and down before Johnny even said the words.

This does not mean, of course, that he was deprived of saying them. In the deepest voice the boy, trying to act as if he was older than his seventeen years, could muster, he proposed to her. "Francis Kelly, will you marry me? Will you be my bride?"

She continued to nod her head before realizing that all of them were waiting for her verbal affirmation. "Yes. Yes, Johnny!" she said, her voice, still thick from crying, intermingled with a laugh that sounded suspiciously like another sob. "Of course! I would love to be your wife!"

Johnny held the ring out to her. It was just a simple band, a golden trinket that he had worn on his ring finger on his right hand. He had bought it for a song and a dance from one of his father's associates. He had hoped that he could give it to Frankie as a promise ring but, with the way things were progressing that night, it only made sense that it become an engagement ring. And then her wedding band…

_Maybe there won't be so much uproar between my Dad and Frankie's dad if they find out they're in-laws, _he thought naively (and admittedly so) as he slipped the ring onto Frankie's extended left hand. Once it was secure, the pair embraced.

It was only then that Whistler exchanged his groans for words. Under his breath, Johnny distinctly heard him mutter.

"I knew it was going to be stupid."

With his face buried in the curve of Frankie's neck, Johnny could not be sure whether it was Match or Reagan who shushed Whistler first. He was just grateful for it. If he was going to pull this off, he was going to need all the support he could get.


	20. XIX

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: A take on _Romeo & Juliet. _In 1921 New York, the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys ruled the city. After a brief war, there was peace but it was never enough to create trust. All it took was one night – and one gunshot – to shatter that illusion.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _Again, I'm going to just pretend that I did not just ignore this story for the past month. I meant to work on it, promise (you can ask Rae, too :P) but I just could not get the words to flow. To be honest, even this chapter felt forced but that was because the whole set up was to get the five kids out of the apartment they had been in for quite some time. After this chapter, it's going to get very interesting as we enter the end of the story. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Hopefully another will follow soon. Oh, and check out the prologue. I rewrote it to suit the eventual outcome of this story. Woot!_

---

Part XIX

Though it was Match who quieted Whistler when his language and tone threatened to break up such a happy moment for Johnny and Frankie, it was also Match who eventually became anxious when the silence became prolonged. Frankie and Johnny remained intertwined, holding onto each other as tightly as they could, while Match, Reagan and Whistler looked on; finally, when she could not stand it any longer, Match cleared her throat. The noise startled the pair and they broke apart.

Match shot an apologetic look their way before beginning to speak. "Listen. I want to congratulate you both and all because, shit, Johnny that took some nerve but what happens now? I don't really know what happened tonight but if what you said happened _happened_, if Mickey Finn really got shot and died, then I'm not entirely sure that this news will be welcome. How do you plan on breaking the news to your folks?"

A strange look came to Johnny's blue-green eyes and, though his one arm was still slung over Frankie's (now trembling – the mention of her parents was enough to make her nervous again) shoulder, his attention was on Match. "I _don't_ plan on it."

Match looked confused. Reagan looked even more confused. Only Whistler understood Johnny's unspoken intentions. "_You _don't plan on it. Who are you sending in your place, Johnny?"

There was a pause and then… "You're smarter than you look, Whis," Johnny said, allowing himself a small chuckle.

Whistler knew better than to take offense to a comment like that. He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. "That wasn't an answer."

"I know it wasn't. I didn't think you'd like my answer so I didn't give it."

Reagan did not like that way that Johnny said that. It made her nervous. "I'm confused."

Johnny turned his head so that he could see her face. "Don't be. Your task ain't as bad as Whis and Match's, kid."

"What do you mean, Match's? What are you gonna try to make me do?" Match cut in.

Frankie gave Johnny's side a quick squeeze. "Johnny. What are you going on about? What's your plan?"

He could not side-step his way around Frankie's question. "Alright. I'll tell you guys. But only if Match and Whistler promise to help. Oh, and Reagan, too. We're going to need everyone if we're going to pull this off tonight."

"Tonight?" It was hard to tell who spoke first. However, it was quite clear that everyone but Johnny was surprised that his impulsive proposal of only moments before meant that he actually wanted to get married that very night. It was one thing, they thought, to put a ring on Frankie's finger; it was another to follow through with it right away. But, from the set expression on his handsome face, all four of them could tell that he would not have it any other way.

Frankie squealed and covered her mouth in surprise before wrapping her arms around him again, excitedly. He almost fell over from the impact of her embrace but he quickly recovered and hugged her back.

Correctly realizing that, if the two of them got locked in that position again, it would take forever to break them apart, Whistler took the initiative to pull on each of their arms. A little more tactless that Match's earlier method to get their attention but it worked.

"C'mon, Conlon. Out with it. You want my help, fine. You got it. But what's this great plan of yours?"

Without answering Whistler, Johnny turned to look at Match. "What about you? Are you in?"

Match nodded. "Of course. I wouldn't give this up for all the money in the world."

"Alright. This is it. Me, I'm going to be in charge of finding a Church. I figure there's got to be one around here that's willing to hitch a couple of kids. And, hey, if not? Money talks. So that's my job. Reagan," he began, jerking his thumb in her direction, oblivious to her shocked expression. He just continued talking.

Reagan, however, was a tad bit disgruntled that this boy – who she had never before met before that night – was assuming that she would do whatever she was told. Well, given her personality, she would but it might have been nice to be asked.

"Reagan, it's going to be your job to take Frankie with you to your house to get ready. It's not safe for her to go home and I'm sure she's going to want to freshen up for her big night."

He waited for some kind of sign that Reagan understood her directions. She stopped shaking her head and sighed. _At least I'll get to see Mama soon. I can only imagine what she's going to say when I show up looking like this with a strange girl in tow. _"Okay. I'm sure I have something nice that Frankie could borrow." _Even if it's nowhere as nice as anything she owns… _

Frankie smiled widely and, after leaving Johnny's side for the first time in quite a while, hurried over to Reagan. She gave her a rather large hug. "Thank you," Frankie whispered.

Reagan just nodded. She had never expected any of this to happen. In a way, she was really just going through the motions. So what if she was agreeing to bring the daughter of the Manhattan Mob leader home with her to Brooklyn. It was no worse that anything else that had happened that night: Mickey Finn's death, her abduction (sort of) by the Kelly's, meeting Frankie Kelly and accompanying her to Match O'Rourke's apartment.

Johnny was still going on. "Now, it wouldn't be smart to send Frankie and Reagan into Brooklyn alone. I know that. So, Whistler," he said, now pointing at Whistler. Whistler did not look in the least surprised. "It's going to be your job to drive the girls to Reagan's place. While they're getting all dolled up and such, I want you to stop by my Dad's office—"

Whistler held up his hands at that. "Are you telling me that you want me to go up to Boss Conlon and tell him that his son is marrying Jack Kelly's daughter? Johnny, you know I'd do anything for you but that's a fool's errand. I'd rather not die tonight, you know."

"No, no, no," Johnny began, shaking his hand outwardly. "I know that, Whis. I'm not an idiot. But I need you to go by the office and leave a note. Dad can be scary when he wants to be so, the way I see it, I tell him myself in a letter. Maybe, if we're lucky, he won't read it until me and Frankie are hitched. Then there won't be anything he can do about it."

Whistler dropped his hands and nodded. "That I'll do for you, Johnny. But then what? After I leave the note at the office, should I get Matt? I mean, he really should know about Mickey and all, right?"

Johnny's mouth hung open. Whistler had hit on the one part of the whole night that Johnny did not have a plan for. In the midst of the excitement of planning a quick wedding, he had forgotten about what the catalyst behind it all was: Mickey's murder.

It was quiet for a few moments as Johnny thought this entire thing over. None of the others offered any advice or suggestions – this was up to him.

Finally, he shook his head. "No. Don't get Matt. I want to do the wedding first and deal with a funeral second. Matt ain't going to handle Mick's death too good. You know that and I know that. I'd rather not tell him until later. He'll hate me for it, I'm sure, but I can't have anything messing this up. I don't want to see any more lives lost tonight."

Whistler nodded. Without having to say anything in response, Johnny knew that he agreed.

He turned to Match. "Match. I need you to do the same thing for Frankie. I'm going to write out a note for my family, she's going to do the same for hers. I need you to bring that note to the Kelly's apartment and leave it for them. If she gives you the address to her home, can you do that?"

Match shrugged her shoulders. "Sure, Conlon. I can handle that."

"Good. I'll stop back here when I find a priest to marry us. I'll leave the address to the Church. You guys meet me there when you're done." He paused. "Does everyone understand the plan?"

No one said anything at first. It was a lot of information to process at once but as long as each of them remembered what role they had to play, it was easy to comprehend.

Reagan was the first to say anything. "Alright, now. If we're going to go through with this, let's do it. It's late as it is and if we want to see a wedding tonight, we got to get moving."

Johnny smiled at the girl. He was really beginning to appreciate her being involved in this whole mess. "Great. Match, do you have a pen and paper for me and Frankie? We got some notes we need to write."

--

It did not take them long to write down their plans on the paper. Frankie's note was a bit longer but both of them contained one overarching message: that Frankie Kelly and Johnny Conlon were tired of the rivalry between their families and, following the unexpected death of Mickey Finn, they decided to disobey their parents' wishes and were getting married.

After folding the notes in half and addressing one to Jack & Jess Kelly and the other to Spot & Rae Conlon (that was Johnny's idea – just in case the note was found by one of Spot's lesser boys, one who had no idea about Spot and Rae's relationship), all five of the young adults left Match O'Rourke's apartment.

Johnny set out on foot, in search of a Church who would understand his situation and perform a marriage ceremony that very night. Match accompanied him for a bit, setting out for the Kelly's posh apartment. When they passed that imaginary line that separated the seedy part of the Lower East Side to the more upscale apartments, the pair separated: Johnny continued on his walk with Match entering the rather impressive apartment building that matched the address Frankie had given her.

Whistler led Frankie and Reagan to the car that he and Johnny had driven to Manhattan in. It was a quick drive from Manhattan back to Brooklyn – just over the Brooklyn Bridge, really – and, even though he had to drop off the girls at Reagan's small house just outside of Brooklyn, he made it to the office in record time.

Maybe it was his nerves or because he enjoyed speeding, Whistler was not so sure. Either way, he was there, parked a block away from Boss Conlon's office, before he knew it.

Now, if only he could actually bring himself to get out of the car and deliver Johnny's note.


	21. XX

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: A take on _Romeo & Juliet. _In 1921 New York, the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys ruled the city. After a brief war, there was peace but it was never enough to create trust. All it took was one night – and one gunshot – to shatter that illusion.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _Only about two weeks or so this time. Not too bad. However, as a bonus, this is definitely the longest chapter in this story. There is a lot going on – I am actually in the last part of this story. The way I figure it, there are only four or five more chapters after this. I hope you enjoy them as they last. Woot!_

---

Part XX

"Hey, Ma. I'm home," Reagan called as she entered her mother's apartment, with Frankie following behind her. She tried, quickly, to settle her chin length blonde hair, before her mother met her in the front of the apartment. She had no doubts that her mother was up, waiting for her to return from her date with Mickey.

She was right.

"Reagan, honey. Is that you?" Sophie Malloy called as she entered into the small room. Despite the lateness of the evening, she was still wearing her afternoon dress as she wiped her hands on a dishrag. She had been doing the washing in the tub when the girls arrived.

"Of course, Ma," she said as she hurried over to her mother and wrapped her up in a hug. Seeing her mother made Reagan realize just how much had happened since she left her apartment that morning; for a good part of the night, she had been certain that she would never see her again.

Sophie laughed as she returned Reagan's squeeze. It was only when Reagan finally let go of her that she noticed Frankie standing just inside the room. "I see you've brought a friend back with you. Excuse me, though, she does not look like Mickey."

A blush came to Reagan's pale cheeks at once. How could she explain to her mother that this was not Mickey, that Mickey was dead, and that this was the daughter of the man that killed him? And that she was now expected to provide this girl with a dress for a quickie wedding as well as to attend this wedding as a witness?

She did not have to. Frankie, conscious of the nerves Reagan was currently feeling, stepped up for her. "Good evening, Mrs. Malloy," she greeted, glad that she remembered the surname that Reagan gave her when they first met. "My name is Frannie and I'm a friend of Mickey's," she said. It was not _really _a lie – she knew the Finn brothers and her father still liked to refer to her as Frannie at times. "I met up with Reagan and Mickey as their date, er, died down," she continued, trying not to wince at her choice of words, "and I offered to accompany her home since Mickey… couldn't."

Sophie smiled, not having any reason not to. She had no idea as to what had occurred only a few hours before. "Well, that's lovely. It's nice to meet you, Frannie. Reagan, dear? Are you almost ready for bed?" she asked.

Reagan, however, knew her mother. Sophie did not mean exactly what she said – what she meant was 'are you ready to tell your friend to go, so you can tell me about your evening?', instead. She nodded politely, eager to stay on her mother's good side. "Almost, Ma. Frank—Frannie asked me if she could come to my room for a bit. Is that alright?"

"Of course, dear. I'm going finish washing up the dishes and then head to my room. Come in there and let me know when you're ready for bed."

Reagan leaned in and awarded her mother with a kiss on her cheek. "Thanks, Ma. We won't be long," she said, feeling a twinge of guilt for lying to her mother. She did not intend to turn Frankie out; she was going with her as soon as Whistler arrived back at the apartment.

She waited until her mother headed back to the kitchen before leading Frankie to her bedroom on the opposite of the apartment. Once they made it to the room, Reagan found the string to her lamp and pulled, shedding light across the small area.

Frankie followed her inside and made herself comfortable on Reagan's bed. "Your mother seems nice."

"Yes," Reagan answered absently as she walked over to her closet. She slid the door open and began to rifle through the various dresses inside. _Now, what in here would make a nice wedding dress?_

"She approved of you going out with a Brooklyn Boy?" Frankie tossed back, quite nonchalantly, as she studied her fingernails.

That caught Reagan's attention. She turned around – there was a sad expression on her face. She really had not had the time to properly mourn Mickey's passing just yet. "She's the one who implored me to accept his invitation. Said it would be best for me if I met a young man destined for wealth. Illegal or not, the Brooklyn Boys got money."

That hit home with Frankie. All of her life, living with her father, she had heard about the importance of a dollar. She nodded. "I got ya."

Reagan heard the somberness in Frankie's voice and almost regretted the rash way in which she had answered Frankie's question. But, then she remembered what they were in her apartment – in her room – to do, and knew that she did not have much time to feel bad for her or herself. She turned her head back into the small closet and continued searching until she found something that might suit Frankie. She unhooked it gently from the hanger and held it out to Frankie.

Frankie accepted the dress wordlessly. It was a white dress, crisp and new, as if Reagan had never worn it. It was low-cut, as well as low-waisted, though the dress only went so far as the wearer's knees. It was embroidered with fine rows of white glass beads giving much of the dress the appearance of sparkling. In a word, it was gorgeous. "Wow."

Reagan looked at the dress and shrugged, though there was bit of a proud smile crossing her thin lips. "My mom made it for me by hand."

"And you don't mind if I wear this?" Frankie asked as she ran one of her hands over the material.

"No. It's not really my style. A bit flashy but, to be honest, I think it would look lovely on you, Frankie. Would you like to try it on?"

Frankie nodded. Reagan could tell that she was excited; despite the money that the Kelly's had, she was not sure if Frankie had ever worn anything that was made specifically for her. She directed Frankie towards the small washroom across from her bedroom and, once Frankie had gone to change into the dress, she took her place on the bed.

It did not take too long for Frankie to exchange her dress for this one. While both of them had been white, there was definitely a difference in the girl's appearance. The new dress revealed much more than the previous one in ways of cleavage and leg; it was much more mature than Frankie's other dress.

"You look beautiful, Frankie. Just like a bride."

It was Frankie's turn to blush. "Thank you, Reagan," she said, uncharacteristically shy. It was as if she was a different person in the new dress. She walked over to the bed and leaned in to give Reagan a chaste kiss on her cheek, just like the blonde girl had given to her mother. "I don't know what I would have done if it wasn't for you."

Reagan was so flattered by Frankie's praise that she did not even note that, if the two girls had never met (as a result of Mickey's murder), then neither one of them would be in such a harrowing situation.

--

There was a moment of silence following Matt's admission. The only sound was the sharp intake of breath that came from Rae.

_Frankie Kelly. Johnny is dating Jack and Jess's daughter. When did that happen?_

Spot's face went from tan to red in a matter of seconds. Rae knew from personal past experience that that was _not _a good sign. She was right. When Spot finally found the words he wanted to say, they came out like an explosion.

"How long has my boy been seeing Jack's daughter? How long has this been kept from me?"

Matt paled and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Boss, it's not like that. Joh—"

Spot did not give him the opportunity to finish his pointless excuse. "Finn, shut it," he ordered, running his hand through his short hair in a manner that quite resembled Johnny's actions; both Conlon's found solace in rubbing their heads when presented with something far out of their control. Rae had noticed that some time ago, just how similar Spot and Johnny were, but knew that this was not the time to bring it up. "I have been betrayed. Spot Conlon does not do well when he is betrayed. What do you propose I do? What should be the penalty of keeping such information from me?"

Rae did not like the threatening tone that Spot had adopted. She understood where it came from but he seemed to have forgotten that Matt's younger brother had just been killed. She felt that Spot should have more compassion in this situation. "Spot, I—"

"You too, Rae. Just shut it."

Her grey eyes widened. This was one time that she was not going to heed his words. Sometimes he forgot their past history and thought that he could treat her the way that he treated all of his lackeys. Normally, Rae let him get away with it so as not to draw attention to their relationship, but Matt knew all about them. She did not feel the need to kowtow down to him. "Liam Conlon, please remember who you are speaking to," she almost whispered. "I am not one of your Boys to control."

Rae's response was enough to quell much of Spot's anger – or, at least, turn it towards her instead of Matt. But, he knew better than to argue with her. The last time they had gotten into a rather alarming quarrel, Rae had threatened to pack up the children and refuse to marry him. Ever since then, Spot kept his anger in check around her and treated her with much more respect than he showed towards his Boys.

He wanted to say something to Rae, wanted to retort that this was his _son _that had betrayed him but he did not. She was glaring at him so fiercely that he conceded. He had already lost one son, to his mind, in the past few minutes. He could not lose the rest of his family.

Spot sighed. "Fine. Forget it. That's not important. What is important is finding Johnny and having that boy explain to me just what has gone on behind my back. Do you agree, Rae?"

She knew that was the best she would get from him so she nodded. "Yes. What do you suggest?"

Spot held his hands out. "I don't know, Rae." He turned back to face Matt. "But I think I know someone that might."

Matt Finn gulped.

--

It took Whistler a few moments of gathering up his nerve before he actually climbed out of his car and walked (tip-toed, really; he was still nervous) over to the front door. It had been his intent to slip the note under the door; whether it was just Matt inside the office or Boss Conlon had already arrived for his evening meeting with his son, he figured that, sooner or later, Spot would find the note.

He did not expect to hear the Boss hollering at Matt when he got there – but that was exactly what he heard as he drew closer to the closed office door.

"How long has my boy been seeing Jack's daughter? How long has this been kept from me?"

"Boss, it's not like that. Joh—"

"Finn, shut it. I have been betrayed. Spot Conlon does not do well when he is betrayed. What do you propose I do? What should be the penalty of keeping such information from me?"

Whisler gulped, not even listening to Matt's answer. His mind was preoccupied with one though: _He knows. Shit. What do I do now?_

He was not about to leave the note – not with Spot yelling like that. In all of his time, working under Boss Conlon, he had never heard the man sound so intimidating as he had in that moment. What would happen to him if he made an attempt to drop the note off at the office only to be caught by the Boss?

_No thank you._

Without even placing the note down, Whistler began to back away from the front door of the office. He took slow, deliberate steps at first, so that Spot would not hear him walk away but, as soon as he was a few feet away, he hurried back to his car. He just wanted to get out of Brooklyn as quickly as possible – it was not smart to stick around now that Spot had learned about Frankie and Johnny.

Besides, what good would that note do now? Spot knew about the secret relationship between his only son and his enemy's only daughter. The only thing that the note would accomplish would be upsetting the Boss even more – and adding Whistler's name to Spot's hit list.

There was only one problem. He had _promised _Johnny that he would deliver the note.

_What the hell am I supposed to do?_

It was then, just as Whistler was about to climb into the car an drive back to get Frankie and Reagan from Reagan's apartment, that he spied Boss Conlon's car. Everyone knew which car was his – it was the most expensive model around – and not one of the Boys would even go near it; they knew how important it was to Spot and did not want to chance catching his ire if something happened to it.

However, it was between going near the car and actually walking up to Spot himself to deliver the accursed note.

Whistler chose the car.

As soon as he had opened the car and slipped the note onto the passenger seat, Whistler hurried over to his car and slipped inside. The car was on and he was speeding back towards Reagan's apartment before realization at his brash actions settled in over him.

Whistler Connolly was the first Brooklyn Boy to touch Boss Conlon's car and (so far) survive.

_Nice._

--

"Hey there, missy. Where do you think you're going?" The young doorman, at his post just inside the lavish building, reached out and grabbed Match's upper arm as she tried to pass right by him and make her way inside. He had express instructions by his employer to bar entry to anyone that he did not recognize as belonging to this building. And this girl, with her faded and patched clothing, definitely did not belong.

Match stopped, as she was expected to, but wrenched her arm out of his hold. She did not appreciate being handled in such a way. "I have to visit the Kelly's. Something about their daughter…" _Wait. What's Frankie's prissy name? Oh, that's right. _"Francis. I got a message." In her left hand she was holding tight to a note. She lifted the paper up and waved it in his face as if that was her ticket into the lift.

A sarcastic retort was lingering on the tip of his tongue but he swallowed it. The Kelly's were their wealthiest clients – everyone knew where they got their money but, as Mrs. Kelly was a generous woman and Mr. Kelly was an intimidating man, they never said a word – and regularly had _interesting _characters coming to visit them. If this girl was telling the truth and he did not let her in, that would be the end of his job.

"Well," he began, lifting the hand that he had used to stall the girl up to his head. He scratched, trying not to look like he was debating his course of action. "The Kelly's only just arrived a few minutes ago. You want I should ring them and tell them you are here?" There, that would save him from having to explain why he let (or did not let) an unsupervised girl up to the top floor.

Match shook her head. "That ain't necessary. I know where they live."

"If I'm going to let you go on up on your own, then I'm going to need some information first," he said. "The tenant's privacy is very important, as I'm sure you know, and it is my job that no one gets passed me that don't belong. Here, follow me, if you would, miss." His voice adopted a friendlier tone, a pleasanter tone, as if he was trying to make up for the brash way he handled her.

She sighed but followed the young man as he left his post at the door in favor of approaching a desk that occupied the middle of the lobby. There was a large book that rested upon the desktop, beside a fancy dial phone. As he lifted it up and, bracing it in his left hand, brought a fountain pen to the page, Match had to squash a bit of envy. She knew that Frankie had money – how else could she afford to pay Match in order to facilitate Frankie and Johnny's secret meetings? – but it was a simple sight, such as the gilded book and the fancy phone, that made her realize just how different they were.

"I need a name and an address, please," he explained, his pen poised to document the girl's information. This way, at least, if something happened or the Kelly's were not expecting this girl, he had proof as to her identity. The idea that she would lie to him did not eve occur.

Match may have been tough and loyal and nosy and, yes, a tad bit greedy… but she was honest. And, when the doorman requested her name and address, she gave it to him without even thinking twice. Unfortunately.

Once the information had been documented, the doorman had no other excuse with which to keep Match in the lobby. He instructed her towards the lift before placing the heavy book back on the desk and going back to his post.

She was surprised to see another young man, dressed in the same knickers suit as the man at the door, waiting within the lift. "Which floor, miss?"

_What did Frankie say her address was? The top floor of this place? I think that's it… _"Um… the top floor. The Kelly apartment."

He nodded and began to operate the machinery. She could see that he looked a bit interested that she had asked for the top floor but he did not say anything until the elevator arrived at her destination. "Your floor," he acknowledged as he opened the door.

"Thanks," she said as she exited onto the floor. However, before he could close the door and begin his descent back to the first floor, Match turned back to face him. "I'm only going to be a second. Can you wait for me?"

The elevator operator nodded and pressed a button. The doors remained open as he resumed his position in the corner of the small room.

Match hurried across the hallway. It was a very short walk from the elevator to the front door of the apartment and she did not want to dawdle. The last thing she needed was to get caught delivering Frankie's note to her parents.

Even if the doorman did not tell her that the Kelly's had arrived at the apartment before she did, Match would have known by the electric light that seeped out from underneath the door. She sighed and, bending down, she slipped the note underneath the door, while praying that Mr. or Mrs. Kelly were not standing beside the door at that moment.

Once the last corner of the white note was swallowed up by the door, Match turned and all but jogged back to the elevator. She stepped inside the room and smiled at the young man. "All right. I'm ready to go back down now."

--

Jack turned the light on in the guest bedroom and glanced around. She was not in that room either. Furious that it was the last room he had needed to check and that there was _no _sign or Frankie or that blonde girl in the apartment, Jack slammed his open palm against the door.

His wife popped up behind him. While Jack had basically ran from one room to the next, in search of his daughter, Jess just followed behind him, waiting for him to realize that she was not there. She was as alarmed as Jack but did not show it by beating up on their doors. "Jack, what are we going to do?"

He spun around and gripped her by her shoulders; it was not a rough hold but one done out of panic. Frankie was the most important thing in his life – if something were to happen to her, he would never be able to forgive himself.

"We've got to find her, Jess."

Jess agreed with him but that did not mean that she had any inkling to where Frankie was. She had quite a few friends – the sons and daughters of various Mob members – but this was the first time that she was out without telling her parents where she had gone. It was not like Frankie to do that and both of her parents knew that.

Neither one of them wanted to say what they were thinking: _Brooklyn_. If Frankie was missing, and left no answer to where she was, there could only be one response. Especially after what happened that night…

Jack lowered his hands from Jess's shoulders until they were wrapped around her wrists. He sidled passed her, exiting the guest room, before pulling her behind him.

"Where are we going?"

He looked over his shoulder. "We're going to the office. Then we're going to call up some of my boys and we're going to find our daughter."


	22. XXI

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: A take on _Romeo & Juliet. _In 1921 New York, the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys ruled the city. After a brief war, there was peace but it was never enough to create trust. All it took was one night – and one gunshot – to shatter that illusion.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _I really meant to update this a lot faster than I ended up doing and I'm sorry for that. I think it's because I have this planned out entirely until the end (it will be 26 chapters in its entirety… just so you know) and, once that's done, it kind of takes the fun out of it. Anyways, I have finally gotten my inspiration back on this story – this chapter and the next are kind of similar chapters (but I decided to split them in two for the sake of length) and, after they are done, the end is there. So, be excited. I should be updating fairly soon with the second half of this bit (where you'll see what's going on in Brooklyn)._

_PS. It's late and I didn't go over for typos yet. I wanted to put this out tonight so, if there are any, I'll get them when I wake up. Woot._

---

Part XXI

Johnny Conlon had never been one for churches. It might have been because his father, born a Roman Catholic though he never practiced during his youth, got all involved with religion after marrying Johnny's mother; ever since he was little, Johnny had had to go to the biggest church in Brooklyn once a week, in an attempt to save his soul. Or, at least, that's what his father told him – about a year ago, he found out that the reason his father was so intent on returning to that same Church weekly was because he had some kind of shady deal going on with Father Fitzpatrick. Johnny had not gone back to the church since.

But, as he left Old Saint Patrick's Cathedral, down on Mulberry Street, he could not help but grin. He had not been certain, when he knocked on the elaborate door, that there would be someone inside that was willing to listen to his story. It had been a pleasant surprise that, at the first church he tried, a priest answered the door personally. After a quick explanation as to the seriousness of the situation – and how handsome of a tithe he would be willing to award the church should he comply with his wishes – Father Murphy had agreed to perform the ceremony that very night… granted that the wedded couple obey the law and obtain a marriage license as soon as they could get to City Hall.

At that moment, Johnny would have agreed to anything in order to receive the priest's aid; he was extremely pleased to see that all the priest required was for them to make it legal in the state's eyes, as well as the church, by getting a license. So, with a rather large grin, he had promised the Father that he would do that the next morning. After shaking the rather young priest's hand, he told him that he would return with his bride-to-be in less than an hour. There would be at least two witnesses, he added, before the man could ask, and there was no need for a long ceremony. All the pair wanted was to be recognized as man and wife by God; only then were they sure that they would no longer be seen as mere children by their parents.

It was a little more than twenty blocks back to the apartment that Match O'Rourke called home and, as he made his way back, Johnny started to whistle. The more he thought about it, the better he felt about this plan. He knew that he always intended to make Frankie his bride – he just never expected that it would happen when they were so young. Or when their parents were still preoccupied up in their silly rivalry.

There was a break in his whistling as Johnny's thoughts turned to his father. He could already hear the man's rough voice echoing in his head; he knew his father would not take the news well at all. He could only imagine how Frankie's father would react – or overreact, as the case was. In a way, he was glad that he and Frankie had taken the easy way out by telling their parents the truth in a simple note. He did not think that he would ever have the nerve to face his father and tell him straight to his face.

Nevertheless, Johnny stuck his hands in his pockets and resumed his whistling. The pair of them would deal with their parents when the time came; until then, they would enjoy their wedding night. After all, it only ever happened once.

The walk back to the rundown, derelict building did not take as long as he thought, even though he had tried to take his time. He had a bit of the pre-wedding jitters and, despite his assumed leisurely pace, he was back at the building within the hour. There was no sign of Whistler's car out front and he wondered if, perhaps, he had parked it a few alleys over (in case).

Johnny did not bother taking one of the oil lamps with him as he made his way up the flights of stairs that led to Match's floor. He kept his hand against the wall, counting steps, until he found the level that he was on. He emerged into the hallway and used the same method to find Match's door. She had left the apartment unlocked; when his hands found the knob, he turned it and let himself in.

A quick glance around the dark room told him that no one had returned to the apartment just yet. He nodded to himself and drew a slip of paper out of his pocket. Father Murphy had obliged him by writing down the church's address – 263 Mulberry Street – in case the others were not familiar with Old Saint Patrick's Cathedral. He did not know for sure where he should leave the scrap; if he set it down somewhere that was overlooked, Frankie might never make it to the church in time.

That's when the perfect solution dawned on Johnny. He had told the others to return to the apartment for further instructions but had neglected to tell them where they would be. But, being sure that they would meet back here, if he left the address _outside _of the apartment, tacked to the front door, there would be no way that they could miss it.

He shoved his hands back into his pockets, nimble fingers taking a quick inventory of its stores. Having been trained from a very early age to get around the law, Johnny had learned that certain items were indispensable. Money, of course, a blade, definitely, and the thin piece of metal his fingers had just found, deep in his pocket: a bobby pin, courtesy of his (almost) sister, Edwina.

A trickster's grin twisting his handsome face, Johnny went back into the hallway. He placed the piece of paper from Father Murphy up against the wooden door and, with a quick jab, stuck the bobby pin through it. When he was sure that the pin would hold, he dropped his hand and took a step back.

"There," he muttered under his breath, "if they miss that, then they're blind."

He wiped his hands against his pants and nodded once. He spared the note one last glance and started his way back to the stairwell. It was up to him to go back to the church and wait for the other four to arrive. He had to be there, at the front of the great building, just in case Father Murphy decided to head out to attend to other business. Now that his impromptu plan was in motion, Johnny was not going to let anything get in the way.

--

Jack still had his hands firmly around Jessa's wrists as he pulled his wife through the apartment. Once they made it back to the foyer, he let go and gestured for her to grab her purse. He, himself, gave one last feverish glance around the room before huffing and patting his pockets for a much needed cigarette. However, just as he was checking the inside of his suit jacket, something caught his eye. "Jess, what's that?"

Her hand was already reaching out to turn off the lights when he called out to her. "What's what?" she asked, fingers resting lightly on the switch.

"That." He jerked his head at the door, his deep brown eyes staring at the floor.

Jess followed his gaze and saw, just next to her heeled shoe, a folded piece of white paper. Curious, she bent over and picked it up. There was an address written on the front of the paper, written in a hand that she recognized immediately. "It's to us, Jack. It's from Frankie," she said, mildly surprised. The surprise did not last, though, and as soon as it wore off, she unfolded the note and began to read it.

"What's it say? Does it tell you where she is?" Jack asked, every inch the protective father. He stalked over to his wife's side and tried to read the note over her shoulder. But, before he could read any further than the opening, Jess folded it back up and placed her hand over her mouth.

He could see that she was breathing heavily, as if she had just read something that upset her greatly. As it took quite a lot to rattle his wife, Jack began to feel even more nervous. "Jess, where's Frankie?"

She turned her head around so that she was meeting his eyes. She had gone pale and, he could see, her hands were trembling. "Honey," she began, her voice shaking nearly as noticeably as her hands, "Frankie… Frankie's getting married."

At first, Jack thought that she was joking – but he knew that there was no way that his wife could feign such an act, even if she was joking. However, that did not mean that he believed what she said. After all, how could his baby girl be getting married if she did not even have a beau? "Yeah, right, Jess. My precious? Getting married?" He let out a weak chuckle. "Okay, I'll bite. Who's our daughter marrying?"

Jess flinched and Jack knew at once that, whatever it was that that note said, he did not want to hear it. His wife never acted as if she was in fear of him, despite all the things she knew he did in his business; for her to draw away from him like that, the news must be worse than he could ever imagine.

"Well…" she said, drawing out the long word, her voice almost hollow. "According to this note, Frankie is marrying a boy called Johnny…"

Not one of his boys was called Johnny – was she worried because Frankie had announced she was eloping with someone they never met? "Jess, we don't know any Johnny." He tried to speak with as calm a voice as he could but, regardless, she still seemed rattled.

"Actually, Jack, we do." It was her turn to humor him with a small laugh, a laugh that she obviously did not mean. "Johnny Conlon." When her husband did not seem to react at all, she clarified. "Spot Conlon's boy."

"I know who Johnny Conlon is now," he snapped, automatically bringing his hand to his head. He ruffled his hair in an effort to calm himself down. He knew it would do no good to get angry, especially at Jessa. Getting angry would not stop his daughter from making the single biggest mistake of her life – only a brain could stop that.

He thought about it for a second, grateful for the silence that she awarded him. He snapped his fingers. "I got it," he announced before opening the front door. He ushered Jess into the hallway and shut the door behind him. "Whoever dropped off this note had to get by the front desk, right? If we ask the boy at the door, he should be able to tell us who it was – if it was Frankie or that blonde girl of yours or someone else, even. Maybe we'll get a lead on a direction or a time or something."

Jess chose to gloss over the minor jab at Reagan's involvement in this whole thing. Instead, she nodded. "I think that sounds right."

Jack nodded and headed towards the lift. He rang for it once before starting to tap his foot impatiently. As soon as the doors opened before him, he strode inward and glared at the young man in the corner. Jess, feeling a bit light-headed at the pace with which things were going, slowly entered behind him.

"Evening again, sir. Ma'am," the boy said as he manipulated the controls and began the lift's descent back to the first floor. Jack nodded absently and Jess just grinned – the operator got the hint and said nothing else.

The lift's doors were barely open and Jack was already crossing the threshold. With a stride in his step that had been absent in recent years, Jack marched over to the young man who stood at the front door to the plush building. "Have you admitted anyone tonight that asked to be shown to the Penthouse?" he asked, almost barking out the question.

The doorman looked a bit flustered but, under the weight of Jack's stare, nodded. "Yes sir, Mister Kelly. She said she was a friend of your daughter's," he replied, in a voice closer to a whisper than anything else. "Is something wrong, sir?"

"What did she look like?"

His eyes widened but he shook his head. "I didn't really pay much mind to her, sir. But," he added quickly, when Jack exhaled sharply and leaned in closer to him, "I did get her name and address. As a precaution."

"Show it to me. Now."

As quickly as he could, the boy hurried over to the desk in the center of the lobby. He picked up the great ledger that rested atop it and flipped it open to the most recent pages. He offered Jack the book without another word. He was all but quailing behind his desk but, once Jack's eyes were going over the ledger's contents, Jess spared him a kind smile. The young man looked relieved but did not move at all.

Jack read the name over twice, not recognizing it. He was only then beginning to understand how little he knew about his own daughter – and it was making him even angrier than he was before. However, the address that the visitor had placed underneath her name was quite familiar to him. Jack even allowed himself a little smirk.

"Jess," he said, shoving the open book back at the doorman without even a second look, "you'll never guess where we're going."

She did not like the tone of voice he had just adopted. It sounded too… _calm… _for a Mob boss who had just learned his only daughter was planning to wed the son of his business rival. Still, she humored him. "Where, Jack?"

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the young man holding the ledger. "We're going to see Match O'Rourke."

The name did not mean anything to her, either, but she was not about to ask any further questions with Jack in this mood. Instead, she waited for him to start storming towards the front door again before following after him.

It was only after the Kelly's had left the apartment building that the poor doorman finally let out the breath he was holding.


	23. XXII

**Title**: _Never Enough_

**Summary**: A take on _Romeo & Juliet. _In 1921 New York, the Manhattan Mob and the Brooklyn Boys ruled the city. After a brief war, there was peace but it was never enough to create trust. All it took was one night – and one gunshot – to shatter that illusion.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the original _Newsies_ characters mentioned in this piece; I do, however, stake claim to Jess Kelly, Frankie Kelly, Reagan Malloy, Johnny Conlon and a whole mess of other characters that will most likely pop up throughout this work.

**Author's Note**: _Okay, everybody. Three chapters left. Woot. And, in case you haven't noticed it, I started to rewrite the beginning (the first few chapters). So far, chapters one and two have been redone to add a bit more detail and whatnot. I should finish chapters three and four some point soon, as well as the next bit to this story. I actually can't wait to finish it, heh. And, I just wanted to note that this is a take on the Romeo & Juliet story. Just remember that - it's not a crossover or an adaptation, if you catch what I mean. _

---

--

Part XXII

Reagan helped Frankie pin up her long curls. It was quite the task, considering the length of her hair but, with the help of quite a few bobby pins, the Kelly girl was finally satisfied that she looked good enough to be married. Excitedly, Frankie fluffed her hair before twirling around once, the drop-waisted skirt fanning out as she turned. There was a smile on her face that seemed at odds with somber mood that seemed to be attached to the pair. Reagan wondered if she should mention to dangers of the evening but decided to hold her tongue; who was she, after all, to spoil Frankie's wedding night?

Nevertheless, Reagan wore a look of concern that she had a hard time disguising. When Frankie finished in her moment of folly, she dropped the ends of her skirt, her smiling sliding off of her pale face. "Reagan… I want you to know that I really do appreciate all you've done for Johnny and me," she said, keeping her voice low, "but I do understand if you want to stay here and not go to the church."

The blonde girl paused for a moment, uncertain. _Should I just stay home? _She shook her head. "I'd… I'd like to go with you, Frankie. If only to go to whichever church that Johnny found and pray for Mickey, I'd like to go."

"Yeah…" Frankie said, her green eyes lowered. She took a deep breath. "Is it bad that, in the rush of everything that's happening, I keep forgetting about Mickey?"

"No. I don't think so." For the sake of the other girl, Reagan attempted to smile. "There will be a time to grieve for Mickey Finn but I don't think that's now. Now," she continued, reaching her hand forward and adjusting one of Frankie's curls, "is the time for you to prepare to be married to your Johnny."

Frankie waited until Reagan had lowered her hand before nodding carefully. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Reagan said, trying to blink back tears that were threatening to overtake her. This whole scenario – everything that had happened since that gunshot rang out in the Park – was beginning to weigh on her. If she allowed herself to start brewing on the evening's events, she thought she might just break down. "Whistler should be her soon. Maybe we should go wait out front."

As if on cue, there came the sound of a car driving in front of Reagan's apartment building. The two girls shared a quick look before slowly exiting Reagan's bedroom. They tiptoed through the hallway and crept through the front room of the apartment, trying their best not to draw the attention of Sophie Malloy. Reagan felt guilty at deceiving her mother but, she felt, Sophie would understand her actions when she told her about them tomorrow.

Reagan made it to the door first. As softly as she could, she turned the knob and pulled the door inward. There was a slight creak – she remembered vividly her mother saying that it should be oiled one of these days and she cringed – and both girls froze. They waited a moment to see if Sophie would re-enter the front room but, when there came no hint of her arrival, Reagan pulled the door the rest of the way before slipping out into the small hallway.

Frankie followed her, pulling the door shut behind her. The door made a muffled slamming noise as it closed; the girls heard it and, rather than freeze again, they hurried down the dim, narrow corridor. Considering both girls were wearing a new dress for the occasion – after Reagan lent Frankie the white dress, she has swapped her own torn dress for a respectable light blue frock that showed off her eyes – they were careful not to muss the skirt; still, they ran down the stairwell as if they were being followed.

By the time they found themselves, once again, out in the darkness, both Frankie and Reagan were panting slightly. At their appearance in front of the building, a pair of headlights shined on them – Whistler. The sudden influx of light caused Reagan to flinch and her heart rate – already speeding from the mad dash down three flights of stairs – seemed to double. She did not move.

Frankie grabbed Reagan's arm and started to pull her towards the car. After a few steps, Reagan regained the ability to move and hurried after Frankie. The brunette opened the car door and let Reagan slide in first before taking her seat. She pulled the door closed and, once it had, she let out a sigh of relief. She had no idea why that whole run had unnerved her so – perhaps, by running from the real threat of Mrs. Malloy discovering the plot, she was subconsciously running from her own parent's disapproval? – but it had unnerved her all the same.

It was only as the car started to head back towards Manhattan that Frankie started to slow her frantic breathing. Reagan, she could hear, was out of breath as she was.

Whistler, on the other hand, looked quite pleased with himself. Keeping one eye on the road before him, he cast a look at the two girls. "What the hell was that about?"

Frankie snorted. He was a Brooklyn Boy; he would never understand. "Nothing, Whis. Just drive."

The red-headed boy just shrugged. He did not really care, anyway. He was still gloating over his own daring, as it was.

--

Whistler, after crossing the Brooklyn Bridge and making it back into Manhattan, had insisted on parking the car a few blocks away from Match O'Rourke's apartment. He had not said why but Reagan was pretty sure she could figure it out. Rather than park the expensive model in the seedier part of town, he had purposely driven a bit further so that it was residing across that imaginary line she had noticed earlier that night.

Once out of the car, the three of them started to walk back towards the apartment. It had been Johnny's idea that they all met back there to learn the next step of his plan and Reagan – as well as her two companions – was quite eager to see what the Conlon boy had in mind. She could tell, back when he was delegating tasks, that he was making everything up as he went along and, in a way, she applauded him for that.

Reagan noticed something else, too. Whereas she had been intimidated walking around this part of town before, she found that with Whistler in tow, acting as a chaperone almost, no one gave the girls a second glance. Reacting to that, Reagan hurried a bit forward so that she was nearly even with Whistler. The boy gave her a wolfish grin which she ignored – if it was between dealing with Whistler's flirtatious habits or being ogled by bums, she would take Whistler.

Luckily, though, the walk was not that far. Frankie, who was obviously getting quite antsy, led the way into the apartment. However, just as they were stepping inside the front entrance of the rundown building, Match was stepping out. She seemed almost surprised to meet them face to face but that looks of surprise switched into one of purpose. She grabbed Frankie by the shoulders and spun her around. "Let's go, dearie. Your groom is waiting for you."

Frankie let Match guide her back down the road but she did glance over her shoulder. "Do you know where we're going, Match?"

"Yup. Johnny was already back here. He left a note for us… told everyone to meet him down at some old church on Mulberry Street."

"Old Saint Pat's?" Frankie asked.

Match nodded.

Whistler and Reagan shared a look this time. Whistler shrugged once before the two of them started to follow Match and Frankie.

--

Matt Finn was sweating. It was not something that he normally did – it was only done it times of great nervousness – but, after being interrogated by Boss Conlon, he could not help it. The man had glared at him fiercely, demanding that he tell him all about Johnny and his secret rendezvous' with Frankie Kelly. His loyalty was at stake – was he loyal to the Boss or Johnny?

There was no other choice for him. Still reeling from the harsh announcement that his brother had been murdered, Matt was confused and hurt. When the Boss asked him what was going on, he did not have the strength to lie. He told Boss Conlon everything – including Match O'Rourke's involvement.

It was when he heard about the Manhattan girl that the Boss stood up and, rubbing his temples with his fingers, walked away from Matt. There had been a tense moment when his back was to Matt before he whirled back around. He said one word. _Where._

Matt gave him the address.

The sweat was slowly dripping down his forehead. He longed to lift his hand and wipe it away but, just then, he did not dare move. Even the Boss's mistress knew better than to interfere when he was in this sort of mood. Almost right after Matt started telling the Boss all about Johnny, Rae had backed away and stood, waiting and watching, in one of the small room's corners.

Boss Conlon was quiet again. His face was still red and his hands were clenched but, at least, he was no longer barking commands or questions at Matt. Instead, the older man was trying to process everything that Matt had just told him.

Finally, he nodded. He kept nodding as he turned around and looked over at the fair-haired woman. "Rae?"

Rae straightened up and met his clear gaze. "Yes, Spot?"

"I'm going for a trip into Manhattan." So very simple yet so very intimidating. It almost sounded as if he planned on just going for a drive and that was all.

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Just for Johnny?"

Even Matt could here the bite behind her words. Though the words were posed as a question, Rae did not seem inquisitive.

Surprisingly, Boss Conlon nodded again. "For now. I need to bring my son home." He took a deep breath. He was obviously trying to get himself under control. "Are you coming with me?"

Rae thought it over for a moment. On the one hand, she was not comfortable with leaving her children home alone when she was over the bridge. Then again, Edwina was fifteen – and there was no way that she was going to allow Spot to head into Manhattan all by himself. If everything that they had heard so far that evening was true, then one of his Boys had been killed by the Manhattan Mob and his own son was seeing Jack Kelly's daughter. She could not trust him to keep his head level once on their land. She nodded. "Yes, Spot."

Matt cleared his throat. "I'd like to go, too, Boss. I want to… I want to get Mickey." The boy's voice had broken in the middle of the sentence. It was one thing to hear from someone that his only brother was killed – it was another to admit out loud to himself. "I can't leave him there, you know."

Spot started to shake his head but, in the middle of the head movement, he stopped. A sad smile came to his face. "Alright, Finn. You can come with us. But don't go getting any ideas, alright? We pick up Johnny and we pick up your brother. That's it. Understand?"

Matt nodded urgently – a little too urgently.

Spot sighed. This was not what he was expecting when he came home from his business meetings. "Let's go. We'll take my car."

Neither Rae nor Matt moved until Spot had already left the room. Matt trudged along behind the man but Rae, who sensed that something was just _off _with those whole plan, hurried forward until she was walking with Spot. "Spot?" she said, her voice a whisper on the wind, "do you think this is the best idea? Letting him come with us? I mean... his brother just died."

"I know, Rae. His brother died. Do you really think I should tell him to leave the body there for Manhattan to disgrace? And that's even if Jacky-Boy just left Finn there to rot because, I don't know… I just don't know, Rae. Hell, there's a lot of shit I don't know. Johnny? With the Kelly girl? How?"

Rae could see that this was bothering Spot way more than he would ever admit – and the fact that he had made some sort of small admission to her made her all the more nervous. She sighed and, leaning in, gave him a quick kiss on his cheek. "It'll be alright, Spot. I mean, it's not like it's not something you can take care, right?"

There was a jerk of his head – it might have been a nod – and Spot lowered his gaze. "Sure, Rae. Now, get in the car. We have to go."

She did not say anything as she walked around the car. Matt followed her around and, remembering that she was his Boss's lady, opened the door for her. She climbed into the car with only a small grin as thanks – however, the grin slowly transformed into a look of confusion when she saw the note sitting, folded, on her seat. She picked it up quickly and climbed back out of the car, nearly backing into Matt as she did so.

Rae used one of the nearby street lamps to quickly read through the note. Then, when she got to Johnny's signature at the bottom of the note, her grey eyes started at the top again. She could not believe what she had read so she read it again. But, when she had read through the small note three times and her understanding had not changed, Rae grimaced. Spot was not going to like this.

Matt, she could see, was still standing outside of the car with her. There was a confused look on his face – he had watched her read the note over and over again – but he just stood there, waiting.

"Rae? What are you doing? I thought I said get in the car?"

Spot's rough voice brought her back around. Almost as if she was in a trance, Rae slid into the car, the note still clutched in her hand. She did not notice it when Matt followed her into the car, or when the door was shut. She was still trying to figure out just _how_ this could have happened.

The man was just about to start the ignition of his fancy motorcar when he caught a glimpse of Rae's glossed over expression. "Rae, dear," he began, purposely speaking in a softer voice – he noticed how preoccupied she was all of a sudden, "what's the matter?"

She glanced over at Johnny's father. Rae knew that if she kept this from him, he would never forgive her. But, if she told him… she knew that he would probably lose it entirely. "Spot? If I… tell you something, do you promise to keep your temper in check?"

Spot did not like the way that Rae posed her question; she was saying that she knew something that would upset him. His curiosity piqued, he nodded. If it was something that Rae was hesitant to tell him, Spot had to know what it was. "I promise. I'll behave," he answered, with a touch of humor to his voice. Whatever it was, he figured, it could not be worse than finding out that Johnny was dallying with Jack's daughter.

He was wrong.

Rae was not entirely sure how she should tell Spot so she decided that being blunt was probably the best way to go. Waving the note absently, she purposely did not meet his eyes. "Johnny left you a night telling you that he's... well... marrying Frankie. Tonight."

Spot's response, true to his promise, was to stare stonily ahead, without saying a word. His face, however, achieved a new hue of redness and his cheeks seemed to sink in as he took deep breath after deep breath.

She was instantly nervous. Cursing herself for telling Spot what this note had said – it just might have been better to leave him ignorant of the matters – she reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm. He was shaking under her touch… he was furious. "Spot, honey? Are you all right?"

He still did not speak. Instead, he turned on the car and, without any warning, slammed his foot down on the accelerator. Tires squealing as the car lurched forward, both Rae and Matt – entirely unprepared for this jolt of speed – fell back against their seats.


End file.
